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ILLUSTRATIONS 



OF 



LYING, 




IN 



ALL ITS BRANCHES. 



BV 



AMELIA OPIE. 



FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION 



HARTFORD: 



rUFLlSHSD BY ANDlUTS AND JUD1). 
183K- 



4 



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TO 
DR. ALDERSON, OF NORWICH. 



To thee, my beloved Father, I dedicated my first, 
and to thee I also dedicate my present, work ; — with 
the pleasing conviction that thou art disposed to form 
a favourable judgment of any production, however 
humble, which has a tendency to promote the moral 
and religious welfare of mankind. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



EXCHANGE 
MK>WN UNIV. LIBRAJBY 
MAY 26 . 1930 






C09TTEMTS. 

i _ 

) 

r 

CHAP. L 

Introduction. 

CHAP. II. 
On the Active and Passive Lies of Vanity — The Stage Coach 
— Unexpected Discoveries. 

CHAP. III. 

On the Lies of Flattery— -The Turban. 

CHAP. IV. 
Lies of Fear— -The Bank Note 

CHAP. V. 
Lies falsely called Lies of Benevolence — A Tale of Potted 
Sprats — An Authoress and her Auditors. 

CHAP. VI. 
Lies of Convenience — Projects Defeated. 

CHAP. VII. 
Lies of Interest — The Skrecn. 

CHAP. VIII. 
Lies of First-Hate Malignity — The Orphan. 

CHAP. IX. 
Lies of Second-Rate Malignity — The Old Gentleman and the 
Young One. 

CHAP. X, 
Lies of Benevolence. 

CHAP. X. Continued. 
Lies of Benevolence — Mistaken Kindness — Father and Son. 

CHAP. XI. 
Lies of Wantonness and Practical Lies 



IV CONTENTS. 

CHAP. XII. 
Our own Experience of the Painful Results of Lying. 

CHAP. XIII. 

Lying the most common of all Vices. 

CHAP. XIV. 

Extracts from Lord Bacon* and others. 

CHAP. XV. 
Observations on the Extracts from Hawkesworth and others 

CHAP. XVI. 
Religion the only Basis of Truth. 

CHAP. XVII. 

The same subject continued 
Conclusion. 



PREF ACS. 



I am aware that a preface must be short, if its au- 
thor aspire to have it read. I shall therefore content 
myself with making a very few preliminary observa- 
tions, which I wish to be considered as apologies. 

My first apology is, for having throughout my book 
made use of the w T ords lying and lies, instead of some 
gentler term, or some easy paraphrase, by which I 
might have avoided the risk of offending the delicacy 
of any of my readers. 

Our great satirist speaks of a Dean who was a fa 
vourite at the church where he officiated, because 

"He never mentioned hell to ears polite, — " 

and I fear that to " ears polite," my coarseness, in 
uniformly calling lying and lie by their real names, 
may sometimes be offensive. 

But, when writing a book against lying, I was oblig- 
ed to express my meaning in the manner most conso- 
nant to the strict truth ; nor could I employ any 
words with such propriety as those hallowed and sanc- 
tioned for use, on such an occasion, by the practice of 
inspired and holy men of old. 

Moreover, I believe that those who accustom them- 
selves to call lying and lie by a softening appellation, 
are in danger of weakening their aversion to the fault 
itself. 

My second apology is, for presuming to come for- 
ward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic wri- 
ter, and a teacher of truths, which I ought to believe 
that every one knows already, and better than I do. 



Vl PREFACE. 

But I beg permission to deprecate the charge of 
presumption and self-conceit, by declaring that I pre- 
tend not to lay before my readers any new know- 
ledge ; my only aim is to bring to their recollection 
knowledge which they already possess, but do not 
constantly recall and act upon. 

I am to them, and to my subject, what the picture 
cleaner is to the picture ; the restorer to observation 
of what is valuable, and not the artist who created it. 

In the next place, I wish to remind them that a 
weak hand is as able as a powerful one to hold a mir- 
ror, in which we may see any defects in our dress or 
person. 

In the last place, I venture to assert that there is not 
in my whole book a more common-place truth, than 
that kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as 
their subjects, must surely die. 

Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so con 
scious of his liability to forget this awful truth, that he 
employed a monitor to follow him every day, repeat- 
ing in his ear, K Remember thou art but a man." 
And he who gave this salutary admonition neither 
possessed superiority of wisdom, nor pretended to 
possess it. 

All, therefore, that I require of my readers is to do 
me justice to believe that, in the following work, my 
pretensions have been as humble, and as confined, as 
thoseof the remembrancer of Philip of Macedon. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



DULUSTIULTXOIIS OF STING, 

IN ALL ITS BRANCHES. 



CHAPTER .1. 

INTRODUCTION. 

What constitutes lying ? 

I answer, the intention to dexeive. 

If this be a correct definition, there must be pas- 
sive as well as active lying; and those who withhold 
the truth, or do not tell the whole truth, with an in- 
tention to deceive, are guilty of lying, as well as 
those who tell a direct or positive falsehood. 

Lies are many, and various in their nature and 
in their tendency, and may be arranged under their 
different names, thus : — 

Lies of Vanity. 

Lies of Flattery. 

Lies of Convenience. 

Lies of Interest. 

Lies of Fear. 

Lies of first-rate Malignity. 

Lies of second-rate Malignity. 

Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence. 

Lies of real Benevolence. 

Lies of mere Wantonness, proceeding from a de- 
praved love of lying, or contempt for truth. 

There are others probably; but I believe that 
this list contains all those which are of the most im 
portance ; unless, indeed, we may add to it — 

Practical Lies ; that is, Lies acted, not spoken 



8 ILLUSTRATIONS OF IYIN0. 

I shall give an anecdote, or tale, in order to illus- 
trate each sort of lie in its turn, or nearly so, lies for 
the sake of lying excepted; for I should find it very 
difficult so to illustrate this the most despicable spe- 
cies of falsehood. 



CHAPTER II. 

ON THE ACTIVE AND PASSIVE LIES OF VANITY. 

I shall begin my observations by defining what I 
mean by the Lie of Vanity, both in its active and 
passive nature; these lies being undoubtedly the 
most common, because vanity is one of the most pow- 
erful springs of human action, and is usually the be- 
setting sin of every one. Suppose that, in order to 
give myself consequence, I were to assert that I was 
actually acquainted with certain great and distin- 
guished personages whom I had merely met' in fa- 
shionable society. Suppose also, I were to say that 
I was at such a place, and such an assembly, on 
such a night, without adding, that I was there, not 
as an invited guest, but only because a benefit con- 
cert was held at these places, for which I had tick- 
ets. — These w T ould both be lies of vanity ; but the 
one would be an active, the other a passive lie. 

In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, in 
the other I should withhold part of the truth ; but 
both would be lies, because, in both, my intention 
was to deceive.* 

But though we are frequently tempted to be guil- 

* This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain circles in 
London ; as many ladies and gentlemen there purchase tick- 
ets for benefit concerts held at great houses, in order that they 
may be able to say, " I was at Lady such a one's on such a 



ON LIES OF VANITY. 9 

ty of the active lies of vanity, our temptations to its 
passive lies are more frequent still ; nor can the sin- 
cere lovers of truth be too much on their guard 
against this constantly recurring danger. The fol- 
lowing instances will explain what I mean by this 
observation. 

If I assert that my motive for a particular action 
was virtuous, when I know that it was worldly and 
selfish, I am guilty of an active, or direct lie. But I 
am equally guilty of falsehood, if, while I hear my 
actions or forbearances praised, and imputed to de- 
cidedly worthy motives, when I am conscious that 
they sprung from unworthy or unimportant ones, I 
listen with silent complacency, and do not positive- 
ly disclaim my right to commendation ; only, in the 
one case I lie directly, in the other indirectly : the lie 
is active in the one, and passive in the other. And 
are we not all of us conscious of having sometimes 
accepted incense to our vanity, which we knew that 
we did not deserve ? 

Men have been known to boast of attention, and 
even of avowals of serious love from women, and 
women from men, which, in point of fact, they never 
received, and therein have been guilty of positive 
falsehood ; but they who, without any contradiction 
on their own part, allow their friends and flatterers 
to insinuate that they have been, or are, objects of 
love and admiration to those who never professed 
either, are as much guilty of deception as the utter- 
ers of the above-mentioned assertion. Still, it is 
certain, that many,^who would shrink with moral 
disgust from committing the latter species of false- 
hood, are apt to remain silent, when their vanity is 
gratified, without any overt ( act of deceit on their 
part, and are contented to let the flattering belief 



10 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

remain uncontradicted. Yet the turpitude is, in my 
opinion, at least, nearly equal, if my definition of ly- 
ing be correct ; namely, the intention to deceive. 

This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful si- 
lence, belongs to that extensive and common species 
of falsehood, zvithholding the truth. 

But this tolerated sin, denominated white tying, is 
a sin which I believe that some persons commit, not 
only without being conscious that it is a sin, but, fre- 
quently, with a belief that, to do it readily, and with- 
out confusion, is often a merit, and always a proof 
of ability. Still more frequently, they do it uncon- 
sciously, perhaps, from the force of habit ; and, like 
Monsieur Jourdain, "the Bourgeois gentle-homme," 
who found out that he had talked prose all his life 
without knowing it, these persons utter lie upon lie, 
without knowing that what they utter deserves to be 
considered as falsehood. 

I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equal- 
ly as irreconcilable to moral principles as an active 
one ; but I am well aware that most persons are of 
a different opinion. Yet, I would say to those who 
thus differ from me, if you allow yourselves to vio- 
late truth — that is, to deceive, for any purpose what- 
ever — who can say where this sort of self-indulgence 
will submit to be bounded '( Can you be sure that 
you will not, when strongly tempted, utter what is 
equally false, in order to benefit yourself, at the ex- 
pense of a fellow-creature ? 

All mortals are, at times, accessible to tempta- 
tions ; but when we are not exposed to it, we dwell 
with complacency on our means of resisting it, on 
our principles, and our tried and experienced self- 
denial : but, as the life-boat, and the safety-gun, 
which succeeded in all that they were made to do 



ON LIES OP VANITY. 11 

while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have 
been known to fail when the vessel was tost on a 
tempestuous ocean ; so those who may successfully 
oppose principle to temptation when the tempest of 
the passions is not awakened within their bosoms, 
may sometimes be overwhelmed by its power when 
it meets them in all its awful energy and unexpect- 
ed violence. 

But in every warfare against human corruption, 
habitual resistance to little temptations is, next to 
prayer, the most efficacious aid. He who is to be 
trained for public exhibitions of feats of strength, is 
made to carry small weights at first, which are daily 
increased in heaviness, till, at last, he is almost uncon- 
sciously able to bear, with ease, the greatest weight 
possible to be borne by man. In like manner, those 
who resist the daily temptation to tell what are ap- 
parently trivial and innocent lies, will be better able 
to withstand allurements to serious and important 
deviations from truth, and be more fortified in the 
hour of more severe temptation against every spe- 
cies of dereliction from integrity. 

The active lies of vanity are so numerous, but, at 
the same time, are so like each other, that it were 
useless, as well as endless, to attempt to enumerate 
them. I shall therefore mention one of them only, 
before I proceed to my tale on the active lie op 
vanity, and that is the most common of all, name- 
ly, the violation of truth which persons indulge in 
relative to their age ; an error so generally commit- 
ted, especially by the unmarried of both sexes, that 
few persons can expect to be believed when declar- 
ing their age at an advanced period of life. So com- 
mon, and therefore so little disreputable, is this spe- 
cies of lie considered to be, that a sensible friend of 



12 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

mine said to me the other day, when I asked him 
the age of the lady whom he was going to marry 
" She tells me she is five-and-twenty ; I therefore 
conclude that she is five-and-thirty." This was un- 
doubtedly spoken in joke ; still it was an evidence of 
the toleration generally granted on this point. 

But though it is possible that my friend believed 
the lady to be a year or two older than she owned 
herself to be, and thought a deviation from truth on 
this subject was of no consequence, I am very sure 
that he would not have ventured to marry a woman 
whom he suspected of lying on any other occasion. 
This however is a lie which does not expose the ut- 
terer to severe animadversion, and for this reason 
probably, that all mankind are so averse to be 
thought old, that the wish to be considered young- 
er than the truth warrants meet with complacent 
sympathy and indulgence, even when years are no- 
toriously annihilated at the impulse of vanity. 

I give the following story in illustration of the 

ACTIVE LIE OF VANITY. 



THE STAGE COACH. 

Amongst those whom great successes in trade 
had raised to considerable opulence in their native 
city, was a family by the name of Burford ; and the 
eldest brother, when he was the only surviving part- 
ner of thai name in the firm, was not only able to 
indulge himself in the luxuries of a carriage, country- 
house, garden, hot-houses, and all the privileges 
which wealth bestows, but could also lay by money 
enough to provide amply for his children. 

His only daughter had been adopted, when very 
voung, by her paternal grandmother, whose fortune 



The stage coach. 13 

was employed in her son's trade, and who could 
well afford to take on herself all the expenses of 
Annabel's education. But it was with painful reluc- 
tance that Annabel's excellent mother consented to 
resign her child to another's care ; nor could she be 
prevailed upon to do so, till Burford, who believed 
that his widowed parent would sink under the loss 
of her husband, unless Annabel was permitted to 
reside with her, commanded her to yield her mater- 
nal rights in pity to this beloved sufferer. She could 
therefore presume to refuse no longer; — but she 
yielded with a mental conflict only too prophetic of 
the mischief to which she exposed her child's mind 
and character, by this enforced surrender of a mo- 
ther's duties. 

The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of 
this world — the mother, a pious, reflecting being, 
continually preparing herself for the world to come. 
With the latter, Annabel would have acquired prin- 
ciples — with the former, she could only learn accom- 
plishments ; and that weakly judging person encou- 
raged her in habits of mind and character which 
would have filled both her father and mother with 
pain and apprehension. 

Vanity was her ruling passion ; and this her grand- 
mother fostered by every means in her power. She 
gave her elegant dresses, and had her taught showy 
accomplishments. She delighted to hear her speak 
of herself, and boast of the compliments paid her 
on her beauty and her talents. She was even weak 
enough to admire the skilful falsehood with which 
she embellished every thing which she narrated : 
but this vicious propensity the old lady considered 
only as a proof of a lively fancy ; and she congratu- 
lated herself on the consciousness how much more 
2 



14 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYIKG. 

agreeable her fluent and inventive Annabel was, 
than the matter-of-fact girls with whom she associ- 
ated. But while Annabel and her grandmother were 
on a visit at Burford's country-house, and while the 
parents were beholding with sorrow the conceit and 
flippancy of their only daughter, they were plunged 
at once into comparative poverty, by the ruin ol 
some of Burford's correspondents abroad, and by 
the fraudulent conduct of a friend in whom he had 
trusted. In a few short weeks, therefore, the ruined 
grandmother and her adopted child, together with 
the parents and their boys, were forced to seek an 
asylum in the heart of Wales, and live on the slen- 
der marriage settlement of Burford's amiable wife. 
For her every one felt, as it was thought that she 
had always discouraged that expensive style of liv- 
ing which had exposed her husband to envy, and its 
concomitant detractions, amongst those whose in- 
crease in wealth had not kept pace with his own. 
He had also carried his ambition so far, that he had 
even aspired to represent his native city in parlia- 
ment ; and, as he was a violent politician, some of 
the opposite party not only rejoiced in his downfall, 
but were ready to believe and to propagate that he 
had made a fraudulent bankruptcy in concert with 
his friend who had absconded, and that he had se- 
cured or conveyed away from his creditors money 
to a considerable amount. But the tale of calumny, 
which has no foundation in truth, cannot long re- 
tain its power to injure ; and, in process of time, the 
feelings of the creditors in general were so com- 
pletely changed towards Burford, that some of them 
who had been most decided against signing his cer- 
tificate, were at length brought to confess that it 
was a matter for reconsideration. Therefore, when a 



THB STAGE COACH. 15 

distinguished friend of his father's, who had been 
strongly prejudiced against him at first, repented of 
his unjust credulity, and, in order to make him 
amends, offered him a share in his own business, all 
the creditors,'except two of the principal ones, be- 
came willing to sign the certificate. Perhaps there 
is nothing so difficult to remove from some minds as 
suspicions of a derogatory nature ; and the creditors 
in question were envious, worldly men, who piqued 
themselves on their shrewdness, could not brook the 
idea of being overreached, and were, perhaps, not 
sorry that he whose prosperity had excited their jeal- 
ousy, should now be humbled before them as a de- 
pendant and a suppliant. However, even they began 
to be tired at length of holding out against the opi- 
nion of so many ; and Burford had the comfort of 
being informed, after he had been some months in 
Wales, that matters were in train to enable him to 
get into business again, with restored credit and re- 
newed prospects. 

" Then, who knows, Anna," said he to his wife, 
" but that in a few years I shall be able, by industry 
and economy, to pay all that I owe, both principal 
and interest ? for, till I have done so, I shall not be 
really happy ; and then poverty will be robbed of its 
stinff." — u Not only so," she replied, " we could ne- 
ver have given our children a better inheritance than 
this proof of their father's strict integrity ; and, surely 
my dear husband, a blessing will attend thy labours 
and intentions." — " I humbly trust that it will." — 
" Yes," she continued, " our change of fortune has 
humbled our pride of heart, and the cry of our con- 
trition and humility has not ascended in vain." — 
" Our pride of heart !" replied Burford, tenderly em- % 
bracing her ; " it was /, I alone, who deserved chas- 



16 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

tisement, and I cannot bear to hear thee blame thy- 
self; but it is like thee, Anna, — thou art ever kind, 
ever generous ; however, as I like to be obliged tc 
thee, I am contented that thou shouldst talk of out 
pride and our chastisement.'' ' While these hopes 
were uppermost in the minds of this amiable couple, 
and were cheering the weak mind of Burford's mo 
ther, which, as it had been foolishly elated by pros 
perity, was now as improperly depressed by adver- 
sity, Annabel had been passing several months at 
the house of a school-fellow some miles from her 
father's dwelling. The vain girl had felt the deep- 
est mortification at this blight to her worldly pros- 
pects, and bitterly lamented being no longer able to 
talk of her grand-mother's villa and carriages, and 
her father's hot-houses and grounds ; nor could she 
help repining at the loss of those indulgences to 
which she had been accustomed. She was there- 
fore delighted to leave home on a visit, and very 
sorry when unexpected circumstances in her friend's 
family obliged her to return sooner than she intend- 
ed. She was compelled also to return by herself 
in a public coach, — a great mortification to her still 
existing pride ; but she had now no pretensions to 
travel otherwise, and found it necessary to submit to 
circumstances. In the coach were one young man 
and two elderly ones ; and her companions seemed 
so willing to pay her attention, and make her jour- 
ney pleasant to her, that Annabel, who always be- 
lieved herself an object of admiration, was soon con- 
vinced that she had made a conquest of the youth, 
and that the others thought her a very sweet crea- 
ture. She, therefore, gave way to all her loquacious 
vivacity ; she hummed tunes in order to show that 
she could sing i she took out her pencil and sketch- 



THE STAGE COACH. 17 

ed wherever they stopped to change horses, and 
talked of her own boudoir, her own maid, and all 
the past glories of her state, as if they still existed. 
In short, she tried to impress her companions with a 
high idea of her consequence, and as if unusual and 
unexpected circumstances had led her to travel in- 
cog., while she put in force all her attractions against 
their poor condemned hearts. What an odious thing 
is a coquette of sixteen ! and such was Annabel Bur- 
ford. Certain it is, that she became an object of 
great attention to the gentlemen with her, but of ad- 
miration probably to the young man alone, who, in 
her youthful beauty, might possibly overlook her obvi- 
ous defects. During the journey, one of the elderly 
gentlemen opened a basket which stood near him, 
containing some fine hot-house grapes and flowers. 
" There, young lady," said he to her, u did you ever 
see such fruit as this before ?" " Oh dear, yes, in my 
papa's grapery." "Indeed! but did you ever see 
such fine flowers?" u Oh dear, yes, in papa's suc- 
cession-houses. There is nothing, I assure you, of 
that sort," she added, drawing up her head with a 
look of ineffable conceit, " that I am not accustomed 
to ;" — condescending, however, at the same time, to 
eat some of the grapes and accept some of the flow- 
ers. 

It was natural that her companions should now be 
very desirous of finding out what princess in disguise 
was deigning to travel in a manner so unworthy of 
her ; and when they stopped within a few miles of 
her home, one of the gentlemen, haying discovered 
that she was known to a passenger on the top of the 
coach, who was about to leave it, got out and pri- 
vately asked him who she was. " Burford ! Bur- 
ford!" cried he, when he heard the answer; "what! 
2* 



18 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the daughter of Burford the bankrupt?" — " Yes, the 
same." — With a frowning brow he re-entered the 
coach, and, when seated, whispered the old gentle- 
man next him ; and both of them, having exchanged 
glances of sarcastic and indignant meaning, looked 
at Annabel with great significance. Nor was it long 
before she observed a marked change in their man- 
ner towards her. They answered her with abrupt- 
ness, and even with reluctance ; till, at length, the one 
who had interrogated her acquaintance on the coach 
said, in a sarcastic tone, "I conclude that you were 
speaking just now, young lady, of the fine things 
which were once yours. You have no graperies and 
succession-houses now, I take it." — " Dear me ! why 
not, sir?" replied the conscious girl, in a trembling 
voice. — "Why not? Why, excuse my freedom, but 
are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the bank- 
rupt?" Never was child more tempted to deny her 
parentage than Annabel was ; but, though with great 
reluctance, she faltered out, "Yes; and to be sure 
my father was once unfortunate ; but" — here she 
looked at her young and opposite neighbour ; and, 
seeing that his look of admiring respect was ex- 
changed for one of ill-suppressed laughter, she felt 
irresistibly urged to add, u But we are very well off 
now, I assure you ; and our present residence is so 
pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and such a charming 
hot-house !" 

" Indeed !" returned the old man, with a signifi- 
cant nod to his friend ; " well, then, let your papa 
take care he does not make his house too hot to 
hold him, and that another house be not added to 
his list of residences." Here he laughed heartily 
at his own wit, and was echoed by his companion. 
" But, pray, how long has he been thus again fa- 



THE STAGE COACH. 19 

voured by fortune?" — "Oh dear! I cannot say; 
but, for some time ; and I assure you our style of 
living is — very complete." — "I do not doubt it; for 
children and fools speak truth, says the proverb ; and 
sometimes," added he in a low voice, " the child 
and the fool are the same person." — " So, so," he 
muttered aside to the other traveller ; " gardens ! 
hot-house ! carriage ! swindling, specious rascal !" 
But Annabel heard only the first part of the sen- 
tence : and being quite satisfied that she had reco- 
vered all her consequence in the eyes of her young 
beau by two or three white lies, as she termed them, 
(flights of fancy, in which she was apt to indulge,) 
she resumed her attack on his heart, and continued 
to converse, in her most seducing manner, till the 
coach stopped, according to her desire, at a cottage 
by the road-side, where, as she said, her father's 
groom was to meet her, and take her portmanteau. 
The truth was, that she did not choose to be set 
down at her own humble home, which was at the 
further end of the village, because it would not only 
tell the tale of her fallen fortunes, but would prove 
the falsehood of what she had been asserting. When 
the coach stopped, she exclaimed, with well acted 
surprise, " Dear me ! how strange that the servant 
is not waiting for me ! But, it does not signify ; I can 
stop here till he comes." She then left the coach, 
scarcely greeted by her elderly companions, but fol- 
lowed, as she fancied, by looks of love from the 
youth, who handed her out, and expressed his great 
regret at parting with her. 

The parents, meanwhile, were eagerly expecting 
her return ; for though the obvious defects in her 
character gave them excessive pain, and they were 
resolved to leave no measures untried in order to 



20 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYIUa. 

eradicate them, they had missed her amusing viva- 
city ; and even their low and confined dwelling was 
rendered cheerful, when, with her sweet and bril- 
liant tones, she went carolling about the house. Be- 
sides, she was coming, for the first time, alone and 
unexpected ; and, as the coach was later than usual, 
the anxious tenderness of the parental heart was 
worked up to a high pitch of feeling, and they were 
even beginning to share the fantastic fears of the 
impatient grandmother, when they saw the coach 
stop at a distant turn of the road, and soon after 
beheld Annabel coining towards them ; who was 
fondly clasped to those affectionate bosoms, for 
which her unprincipled falsehoods, born of the most 
contemptible vanity, had prepared fresh trials and 
fresh injuries : for her elderly companions were her 
father's principal and relentless creditors, who had 
been down to Wynstaye on business, and were re- 
turning thence to London ; intending when they ar- 
rived there to assure Sir James Alberry, — that friend 
of Burford's father, who resided in London, and 
wished to take him into partnership, — that they 
were no longer averse to sign his certificate ; being 
at length convinced he was a calumniated man. 
But now all their suspicions were renewed and con- 
firmed ; since it was easier for them to believe that 
Burford was still the villain which they always 
thought him, than that so young a girl should have told 
so many falsehoods at the mere impulse of vanity. 
They therefore became more inveterate against her 
poor father than ever; and, though their first visit to 
the metropolis was to the gentleman in question, it 
was now impelled by a wish to injure, not to serve, 
him. How differently would they have felt, had the 
vain and false Annabel allowed the coach to set her 



THE STAGE COACH. 2m 

down at her father's lowly door ! and had they be- 
held the interior arrangement of his house and fa- 
mily ! Had they seen neatness and order giving at- 
traction to cheap and ordinary furniture ; had they 
beheld the simple meal spread out to welcome the 
wanderer home, and the Bible and Prayer-book 
ready for the evening service, which was deferred 
till it could be shared again with her whose return 
would add fervour to the devotion of that worship- 
ping family, and would call forth additional expres- 
sions of thanksgiving ! 

The dwelling of Burford was that of a man im- 
proved by trials past ; — of one who looked forward 
with thankfulness and hope to the renewed posses- 
sion of a competence, in the belief that he should 
now be able to make a wiser and holier use of it 
than he had done before. His wife had needed no 
such lesson ; though, in the humility of her heart, she 
thought otherwise ; and she had helped her husband 
to impress on the yielding minds of her boys, who 
(happier than their sister) had never left her, that a 
season of worldly humiliation is more safe and bles- 
sed than one of worldly prosperity — while their 
Welch cottage and wild mountain garden had been 
converted, by her resources and her example, into a 
scene of such rural industry and innocent amuse- 
ment, that they could no longer regret the splendid 
house and grounds which they had been obliged to 
resign. The grandmother, indeed, had never ceased 
to mourn and to murmur ; and, to her, the hope of 
seeing a return of brighter days, by means of a new 
partnership, was beyond measure delightful. But 
she was doomed to be disappointed, through those 
errors in the child of her adoption which she had at 
least encouraged, if she had not occasioned. 



22 ILLU1TRATIQJSS OK kYIM, 

It was with even clamorous delight, that Annabel, 
after this absence of a few months, was welcomed 
by her brothers : the parents' welcome was of a 
quieter, deeper nature; while the grandmother's 
first solicitude was to ascertain how she looked ; and 
having convinced herself that she was returned hand- 
somer than ever, her joy was as loud a3 that of the 
boys. — " Do come hither ,'Bell," said one of her bro- 
thers — " we have so much to show you ! The old cat 
has such nice kittens !" — " Yes ; and my rabbits have 
all young ones i" cried another. — " And I and mam- 
ma," cried the third boy, "have put large stones 
into the bed of the mountain rill ; so now it makes 
such a nice noise as it flows over them ! Do come, 
Bell; do, pray, come with us!" — but trie evening 
duties were first to be performed ; and performed 
they were, with more than usual solemnity: but after 
them Annabel had to eat her supper; and she was 
so engrossed in relating her adventures in the coach, 
and with describing the attentions of her compa- 
nions, that her poor brothers were not attended to. 
In vain did her mother say, "Do, Annabel, go with 
your brothers!" and add, "Go now; for it is near 
their bed-time!" She was too fond of hearing her- 
self talk, and of her grandmother's flatteries, to be 
willing to leave the room ; and though her mother 
was disappointed at her selfishness, she could net 
bear to chide her on the first night of her return. 

When Annabel was alone with her grandmother, 
she ventured to communicate to her what a fearful 
consciousness of not having done right had led her 
to conceal from her parents; and after relating 
all that had passed relative to the fruit and flowers, 
she repeated the cruel question of the old man, "Are 
you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the bankrupt?" 



THH STAGE COACH. 23 

and owned what her reply was : on which her grand- 
mother exclaimed, with great emotion," Unthinking 
girl ; you know not what injury you may have done 
your father !" She then asked for a particular descrip- 
tion of the persons of the old men, saying," Well, well, 
it cannot be helped now r — I may be mistaken ; but be 
sure not to tell your mother what you have told me." 

For some days after Annabel's return, all went on 
well ; and their domestic felicity would have been so 
complete, that Burford and his wife would have much 
disliked any idea of change, had their income been 
sufficient to give their boys good education ; but, as 
it was only just sufficient for their maintenance, they 
looked forward with anxious expectation to the arri- 
val of a summons to London, and to their expected 
residence there. Still the idea of leaving their pre- 
sent abode was really painful to all, save Annabel 
and her grandmother. They thought the rest of the 
family devoid of proper spirit, and declared that 
living in Wales was not living at all. 

But a stop was now put to eager anticipations on 
the on© hand, or of tender regrets on the other ; for, 
while Burford was expecting daily to receive remit- 
tances from Sir James Alberry, to enable him to 
transport himself and his family to the metropolis, 
that gentlemen wrote to him as follows : 
"Sir, 

u All connection between us is for ever at an end ; 
and I have given the share in my business which 
was intended for you, to the zvorthy man who has so 
long solicited it. I thought that I had done you in- 

Sstiee, sir ; I wished therefore to make you amends, 
ut I find you are what you are represented to be, 
a fraudulent bankrupt; and your certificate now 
mill nvMr ht tigntd. Should you wonder what has 



24 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

occasioned this change in my feelings and proceed- 
ings, I am at liberty to inform you that your daugh- 
ter travelled in a stage coach, a few days ago, with 
your two principal creditors; and I am desired to 
add, thai children and fools speak truth. 

" James Alberry." 
When Burford had finished reading this letter, 
it fell from his grasp, and clasping his hands con- 
vulsively together, he exclaimed, " Ruined and dis- 
graced for ever !" then rushed into his own cham- 
ber. His terrified wife followed him with the un- 
read letter in her hand, looking the inquiries which 
she could not utter. — " Read that," he replied, 
" and see that Sir James Alberry deems me a vil- 
lain I" She did read, and with a shaking frame ; 
but it was not the false accusation of her husband, 
nor the loss of the expected partnership, that thus 
agitated her firm nerves, and firmer mind ; it was 
the painful conviction, that Annabel, by some means 
unknown to her, had been the cause of this mis- 
chief to her fatherr ; — a conviction which consider- 
ably increased Burford's agony, when she pointed 
out the passage in Sir James's letter alluding to An- 
nabel, who was immediately summoned, and de- 
sired to explain Sir James's mysterious meaning. 
" Dear me ! papa," cried she, changing colour, " I 
am sure, if I had thought, — I am sure I could not 
think, — nasty, ill-natured old man ! I am sure 1 only 
said — " " But what did you say?" cried her agi- 
tated father. — " I can explain all," said his mother, 
who had entered uncalled for, and read the letter. 
She then repeated what Annabel had told, but sof- 
tening it as much as she could ; — however, she told 
enough to show the agonizing parents that their 
child was not only the cause of disappointment and 



THE STAGE COAOfT. 25 

disgrace io them, but a mean, vain-glorious, and 
despicable liar ! " The only amends which you can 
now make us," said Burford, " is to tell the whole 
truth, unhappy child ! and then we must see what 
can be done ; for my reputation must be cleared, 
even at the paiaful expense of exposing you." Nor 
was it long before the mortified Annabel, with a 
heart awakened to contrition by her mother's gentle 
reproofs, and the tender teachings of a mother's love, 
made an ample confession of ail that had passed in 
the stage coach ; on hearing which, Burford instant- 
ly resolved to set off for London. But how was he 
to get thither ? He had no money ; as he had re- 
cently been obliged to pay some debts of his still 
thoughtless and extravagant mother ; nor could he 
bear to borrow of his neighbour what he was afraid 
he might be for some time unable to return. " Cruel, 
unprincipled girl !" cried he, as he paced their little 
room in agony ; " see to what misery thou hast re- 
duced thy father ! However, I must go to London 
immediately, though it be on foot." " Well, really, 
I don't see any very great harm in what the poor 
child did," cried his mother, distressed at seeing 
Annabel's tears. "It was very trying to ner to be 
reproached with her father's bankruptcy and her fal- 
len fortunes ; and it was very natural for her to say 
what she did." "Natural!" exclaimed the indig- 
nant mother ; " natural for my child to utter false- 
hood on falsehood, and at the instigation of a mean 
vanity ! Natural for my child to shrink from the 
avowal of poverty, which was unattended with dis- 
grace ! Oh ! make us not more wretched than we 
were before, by trying to lessen Annabel's faults in 
her own eyes ! Our only comfort is the hope that 
she is ashamed of herself," " But neither her shame 
3 



26 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

nor penitence," cried Burford, " will give me the 
quickest means of repairing the effects of her error. 
However, as I cannot ride, I must walk to London ;" 
while his wife, alarmed at observing the dew of 
weakness which stood upon his brow, and the faint 
flush which overspread his cheek, exclaimed, " But 
will not writing to Sir James be sufficient ?" " No. 
My appearance will corroborate my assurances too 
well. The only writing necessary will be a detail 
from Annabel of all that passed in the coach, and a 
confession of her fault.'" " What ! exact from your 
child such a disgraceful avowal, William !" cried 
the angry grandmother. " Yes; for it is a punish- 
ment due to her transgression ; and she may think 
herself happy if its consequences end here. 1 ' — 
" Here's a fuss, indeed, about a little harmless puf- 
fing and white lying I" u Harmless !" replied Bur- 
ford, in a tone of indignation, while his wife exclaim- 
ed, in the agony of a wounded spirit, " Oh ! mother, 
mother! do not make us deplore, more than we al- 
ready do, that fatal hour when we consented to sur- 
render our dearest duties at the call of compassion 
for your sorrows, and entrusted the care of our 
child's precious soul to your erroneous tenderness ! 
But, I trust that Annabel deeply feels her sinfulness, 
and that the effects of a mistaken education may 
have been counteracted in time." 

The next day, having procured the necessary do- 
cument from Annabel, Burford set off on his jour- 
ney, intending to travel occasionally on the tops of 
coaches, being well aware that he was not in a state 
of health to walk the whole way. 

In the meanwhile, Sir James Alberry, the London 
merchant, to whom poor Burford was then pursuing 
bis long and difficult journey, was beginning to sus* 



THE STAGE COACH. 27 

pect that he had acted hastily ; and, perhaps, un- 
justly. He had written his distressing letter in the 
moments of his first indignation, on hearing the 
statement of the two creditors ; and he had more- 
over written it under their dictation; — and, as the 
person who had long wished to be admitted into 
partnership with him happened to call at the same 
time, and had taken advantage of Burford's sup- 
posed delinquency, he had, without further hesita- 
tion, granted his request. But as Sir James, though 
a rash, was a kind-hearted man, when his angry 
feelings had subsided, the rebound of them was in 
favour of the poor accused ; and he reproached 
himself for having condemned and punished a sup- 
posed culprit, before he was even heard in his de- 
fence. Therefore, having invited Burford's accu- 
sers to return to dinner, he dismissed them as soon 
as he could, and went in search of his wife, wish- 
ing, but not expecting, his hasty proceeding to re- 
ceive the approbation of her candid spirit and dis- 
criminating judgment. "What is all this?" cried 
Lady Alberry,when he had done speaking. "Is it 
possible that, on the evidence of these two men,who 
have shown themselves inveterate enemies of the 
poor bankrupt, you have broken your promise to 
him, and pledged it to another?" " Yes ; and my 
letter to Burford is gone. I wish I had shown it to 
you before it went; but, surely Burford \s child could 
not have told them falsehoods." "That depends 
on her education." "True, Jane; and she was 
brought up, you know, by that paragon, her mo- 
ther, who cannot do wrong." "No; she was 
brought up by that weak woman, her grandmo- 
ther, who is not likely, I fear, ever to do right. Had 
her pious mother educated her, I should have been 



.28 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

sure that Annabel Burford could not have told a 
lie. However, I shall see, and interrogate the ac- 
cusers. In the meanwhile, 1 must regret your ex 
cessive precipitancy.'" 

As Lady Alberry was a woman who scrupulously 
performed all her religious and moral duties, she 
was, consequently, always observant of that holy 
command, " not to take up a reproach against her 
neighbour." She was, therefore, very unwilling to 
believe the truth of this charge against Burford ; 
and thought that it was more likely an ill-educated 
girl should tell a falsehood, which had also, per- 
haps, been magnified by involuntary exaggeration, 
than that the husband of such a woman as Anna 
Burford should be the delinquent which his old 
creditors described him to be. For she had in for- 
mer days, been thrown into society with Burford's 
wife, and felt attracted towards her by the strong- 
est of all sympathies, that of entire unity on those 
subjects most connected with our welfare here and 
hereafter; those sympathies which can convert 
strangers into friends, and draw them together in 
the enduring ties of pure, Christian love. " No, no, 1 ' 
said she to herself; " the bcii» voJ husband of such 
a woman cannot be a vmdin :" and she awaited, 
with benevolent impatience, the arrival of her ex- 
pected guests. 

They came, accompanied by Charles Danvers, 
Annabel's young fellow-traveller, who was nephew 
to one of them ; and Lady Alberry lost no time in 
drawing from them an exact detail of all that had 
passed. " And this girl, you say, was a forward, 
conceited, set-up being, full of herself and her ac- 
complishments ; in short, the creature of vanity." 
: Yes," replied one of the old men, " it was quite 



THE STAGE COACH. 29 

a comedy to look at her and hear her!" u But 
what says my young friend ?" " The same. She 
is very pretty ; but a model of affectation, boasting, 
and vanity. Now she was hanging her head on 
one side — then looking languishingly with her 
eyes ; — and when my uncle, coarsely, as I thought, 
talked of her father as a bankrupt, her expression 
of angry mortification was so ludicrous, that I could 
scarcely help laughing. Nay, I do assure you," 
he continued, " that had we been left alone a few 
minutes, I should have been made the confidant of 
her love-affairs ; for she sighed deeply once, and 
asked me, with an affected lisp, if I did not think 
it a dangerous thing to have a too susceptible 
heart ?" As he said this, after the manner of An- 
nabel, both the old men exclaimed, u Admirable ! 
that is she to the life ! I think that I see her and 
hear her !" " But I dare say," said Lady Alberry 
gravely, " that you paid her compliments, and pre- 
tended to admire her notwithstanding." " I own 
it ; for how could I refuse the incense which every 
look and gesture demanded ?" " A principle of 
truth, young man ! would have enabled you to do 
it. What a fine lesson it would be, for poor flat- 
tered women, if we could know how meanly men 
think of us, even when they flatter us the most." 
" But, dear Lady Alberry, this girl seemed to me 
a mere child ; a coquette of the nursery : still, had 
she been older, her evident vanity would have se- 
cured me against her beauty." " You are mista- 
ken, Charles ; this child is almost seventeen. But 
now, gentlemen, as just men, I appeal to you all, 
whether it is not more likely that this vain-glorious 
girl told lies, than that her father, the husband of 
one of the best of women, should be guilty of the 
3* 



30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

grossest dishonesty ?" " I must confess, Jane, that 
you have convinced me, 1 ' said Sir James ; but the 
two creditors only frowned, and spoke not. " But 
consider," said this amiable advocate ; " if the 
girl's habitation was so beautiful, w r as it not in- 
consistent with her boasting propensities that she 
should not choose to be set down at it ? And if her 
father still had carriages and servants, would they 
not have been sent to meet her ? And if he were 
really rich, would she have been allowed to travel 
alone in a stage coach ? Impossible ; and I con- 
jure you to suspend your severe judgment of an un* 
fortunate man, till you have sent some one to see 
how he really lives. 1 ' 

u I am forced to return to Wynstaye to-morrow," 
growled out Charles's uncle ; " therefore, suppose 
I go myself." "We had fixed to go into Wales 
ourselves next week," replied Lady Alberry, " on 
a visit to a dear friend who lives not far from Wyn- 
staye. Therefore, what say you, Sir James ? Had 
we not better go with our friend ? For if you have 
done poor Burford injustice, the sooner you make 
him reparation, and in person, the better." To 
this proposal Sir James gladly assented ; and they 
set off for Wales the next day, accompanied by the 
uncle and the nephew. 

As Lady Alberry was going to her chamber, on 
the second night of their journey, she was startled 
by the sound of deep groans, and a sort of delirious 
raving, from a half-open door. " Surely," said she 
to the landlady, who was conducting her, " there is 
some one very ill in that room." " Oh dear! yes 
my lady ; a poor man who was picked up on the 
road yesterday. He had walked all the way from 
the heart of Wales, till he was so tired, he got on a 



THE STAGE COACH. 31 

coach ; and he supposes that, from weakness, he fell 
off in the night ; and not being missed, he lay till 
he was found and brought hither." " Has any medi- 
cal man seen him?" "-Not yet ; for our surgeon 
lives a good way ; and as he had his senses when 
he first came, we hoped he was not much hurt. 
He was able to tell us that he only wanted a garret, 
as he was very poor ; and yet, my lady, he looks 
and speaks so like a gentleman !" " Poor creature ! 
he must be attended to, and a medical man sent 
for directly, as he is certainly not sensible noio" 
" Hark ! he is raving again, and all about his wife, 
and I cannot tell what." " I should like to see 
him," said Lady Alberry, whose heart always yearned 
towards the afflicted ; " and I think that I am my- 
self no bad doctor." Accordingly she entered the 
room just as the sick man exclaimed in his delirium, 
" Cruel Sir James ! I a fraudulent .... Oh ! my 
dearest Anna !".... and Lady Alberry recogni- 
zed, in the poor raving bei Jg before her, the calum- 
niated Burford ! " I know him !" she cried, burst- 
ing into tears ; " we will be answerable for all ex- 
penses." She then went in search of Sir James ; 
and having prepared him as tenderly as she could 
for the painful scene which awaited him, she led him 
to the bed-side of the unconscious invalid ; — then, 
while Sir James, shocked and distressed beyond mea- 
sure, interrogated the landlady, I^ady Alberry exami- 
ned the nearly thread-bare coat of the supposed rich 
man, which lay on the bed, and searched for the 
slenderly-filled purse, of which he had himself spo- 
ken. She found there Sir James's letter, which had, 
she doubted not, occasioned his journey and his ill- 
ness ; and which, therefore, in an agony of repent- 
ant feeling, her husband tore into atoms. In the 



32 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

same pocket he found Annabel's confession ; and 
when they left the chamber, having vainly waited in 
hopes of being recognized by the poor invalid, they 
returned to their fellow-travellers, carrying with them 
the evidences of Burford's scanty means, in corrobo- 
ration of the tale of suffering and fatigue which they 
had to relate. " See," said Lady Alberry, holding 
up the coat, and emptying the purse on the table, 
u are these the signs of opulence? and is travelling 
on foot, in a hot June day, a proof of splendid living?" 
While the harsh creditor, as he listened to the tale 
of delirium, and read the confession of Annabel, 
regretted the hasty credence which he had given 
to her falsehoods. 

But what was best to be done ? To send for Bur- 
ford's wife ; — and, till she arrived to nurse him, Sir 
James and Lady Alberry declared that they would 
not leave the inn. It was therefore agreed that the 
nephew should go to Burford's house in the barouche , 
and escort his wife back. He did so ; and while 
Annabel, lost in painful thought, was walking on the 
road, she saw the barouche driving up, with her 
young fellow-traveller in it. As it requires great 
suffering to subdue such overweening vanity as An- 
nabel's, her first thought, on seeing him, was, that 
her youthful beau was a young heir, who had travel- 
led in disguise, and Avas now come in state to make 
her an offer ! She therefore blushed with pleasure 
as he approached, and received his bow with a coun- 
tenance of joy. But his face expressed no answer- 
ing pleasure ; and, coldly passing her, he said his 
business was with her mother, who, alarmed, she 
scarcely knew why, stood trembling at the door ; 
nor was she less alarmed when the feeling youth 
told his errand, in broken and faltering accents, and 



THE STAGE COACH. 33 

delivered Lady Alberry's letter. "Annabel must 
go with me!" said her- mother, 4 in a deep and so- 
lemn tone. Then, lowering her voice, because un- 
willing to reprove her before a stranger, she added, 
11 Yes, my child ! thou must go to see the effects of 
thy errors, and take sad, but salutary warning for 
the rest of thy life. We shall not detain you long, 
sir," she continued, turning to Charles Danvers ; 
" our slender wardrobe can be soon prepared." 

In a short time, the calm, but deeply suffering 
wife, and the weeping humbled daughter, were on 
their road to the inn. The mother scarcely spoke 
during the whole of the journey ; but she seemed to 
pray a great deal; and the young man was so af- 
fected with the subdued anguish of the one, and 
the passionate grief of the other, that, he declared 
to Lady Alberry, he had never been awakened to 
such serious thoughts before, and hoped to be the 
better for the journey through the whole of his ex- 
istence ; while, in her penitent sorrow, he' felt in- 
clined to forget Annabel's fault, coquetry, and af- 
fectation. 

When they reached the inn, the calmness of the 
wife was entirely overcome at the sight of Lady 
Alberry, who opened her arms to receive her with 
the kindness of an attached friend ; whispering as 
she did so, u He has been sensible ; and he knew 
Sir James ; knew him as an affectionate friend and 
nurse !" " Gracious heaven, I thank thee," she re- 
plied, hastening to his apartment, leading the re- 
luctant Annabel along. But he did not know them, 
and his wife was at first speechless with sorrow ; at 
length, recovering her calmness, she said, " See ! 
dear unhappy girl ! to what thy sinfulness has re- 
duced thy fond father ! Humble thyself, my child, 



34 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

before the Great Being whom thou hast offended , 
and own his mercy in the, awful warning!" " I 
am humbled, I am warned, I trust," cried Anna- 
bel, falling on her knees; " but, if he die, what 
will become of me?" "What will become of us 
all!" replied the mother, shuddering at the bare 
idea of losing him, but preparing, with forced com- 
posure, for her important duties. Trying ones in- 
deed they were, through many days and nights, 
that the wife and daughter had to watch beside the 
bed of the unconscious Burford. The one heard 
herself kindly invoked, and tenderly desired, and 
her absence wondered at; while the other never 
heard her name mentioned, during the ravings of 
fever, without heart-rending upbraidings, and just 
reproofs. But Burford's life was granted to the 
prayers of agonizing affection ; and, when recollec- 
tion returned, he had the joy of knowing that his 
reputation was cleared, that his angry creditors 
were become his kind friends, and that Sir James 
Alberry lamented, with bitter regret, that he could 
no longer prove his confidence in him by making 
him his partner. But, notwithstanding this blight 
to his prospects, Burford piously blessed the event 
which had had so salutary an influence on his of- 
fending child ; and had taught her a lesson which 
she was not likely to forget. Lady Alberry, how- 
ever, thought that the lesson was not yet sufficient- 
ly complete ; for, though Annabel might be cured 
of lying by the consequences of her falsehoods, the 
vanity which prompted them might still remain un- 
corrected. Therefore, as Annabel had owned that 
it was the wish not to lose consequence in the eyes 
of her supposed admirer, which had led her to her 
last fatal falsehood, Lady Alberry, with the mother's 



THE STAGE COACH. 35 

approbation, contrived a plan for laying the axe, if 
possible, to the root of her vanity ; and she took the 
earliest opportunity of asking Charles Danvers, in 
her presence, and that of her mother, some particu- 
lars concerning what passed in the coach, and his 
opinion on the subject. As she expected, he gave a 
softened and favourable representation ; and would 
not allow that he did not form a favourable opinion 
of his fair companion. " What ! Charles," said she, 
u do you pretend to deny that you mimicked her 
voice and manner ?" She then repeated all that 
he had said, and his declaration that her evident 
vanity and coquetry steeled his heart against her, 
copying, at the same time, his accurate mimickry 
of Annabel's manner ; nor did she rest till she had 
drawn from him a full avowal that what he had as- 
serted was true ; for, Lady Alberry was not a wo- 
man to be resisted ; while the mortified, humbled, 
but corrected Annabel, could only hide her face in 
her mother's bosom ; who, while she felt for the 
salutary pangs inflicted on her, mingled caresses 
with her tears, and whispered in her ear, that the 
mortification which she endured was but for a mo- 
ment ; and the benefit would be, she trusted, of 
eternal duration. The lesson was now complete 
indeed. Annabel found that she had not only, by 
her lies of vanity, deprived her father of a lucrative 
business, but that she had exposed herself to the ri- 
dicule and contempt of that very being who had 
been the cause of her error ; and, in the depth of 
her humbled and contrite heart, she resolved from 
that moment to struggle with her besetting sins, and 
subdue them. Nor was the resolve of that trying 
moment ever broken. But when her father, whose 
original destination had been the church, was led, 



30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

by his own wishes, to take orders, and was, in process 
of time, inducted into a considerable living, in the 
gift of Sir James Alberry, Annabel rivalled her mo- 
ther in performing the duties of her new station : 
and, when she became a wife and mother herself, 
she had a mournful satisfaction in relating the above 
story to her children ; bidding them beware of all 
lying ; but more especially of that common lie, the 
lie of vanity, whether it be active or passive. " Not," 
said she, u that retributive justice in this world, like 
that which attended mine, may always follow your 
falsehoods, or those of others ; but because all lying 
is contrary to the moral law of God ; and that the 
liar, as scripture tells us, is not only liable to pun- 
ishment and disgrace here, but will be the object 
of certain and more awful punishment in the world 
to come." 

The following tale illustrates the passive lie of 

VANITY. 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 

There are two sayings — the one derived from 
divine, the other from human authority — the truth 
of which is continually forced upon us by experi- 
ence. They are these : — " A prophet is not with- 
out honour, except in his own country;" and "No 
man is a hero to his valet-de-chambre." — "Fa- 
miliarity breeds contempt," is also a proverb to the 
same effect ; and they all three bear upon the ten- 
dency in our natures to undervalue the talents, and 
the claims to distinction, of those with whom we are 
closely connected and associated ; and on our in- 
capability to believe that they, whom we have al- 
ways considered as our equals only, or perhaps as 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 37 

our inferiors, can be to the rest of the world ob- 
jects of admiration and respect. 

No one was more convinced of the truth of 
these sayings than Darcy Pennington, the only 
child of a pious and virtuous couple, who thought 
him the best of sons, and one of the first of geni- 
uses ; but, as they were not able to persuade the 
rest of the family of this latter truth, when they di- 
ed, Darcy's uncle and guardian insisted on his go- 
ing into a merchant's counting-house in London, 
instead of being educated for one of the learned 
professions. Darcy had a mind too well disciplined 
to rebel against his guardian's authority. He there- 
fore submitted to his allotment in silence ; resolv- 
ing that his love of letters and the muses should 
not interfere with his duties to his employer, but 
he devoted all his leisure hours to literary pursuits ; 
and, as he had real talents, he was at length raised, 
from the unpaid contributor to the poetical co- 
lumns in a newspaper, to the paid writer in a po- 
pular magazine ; while his poems, signed Alfred, 
became objects of eager expectation. ButDarcy's 
own family and friends could not have been more 
surprised at his growing celebrity than he himself 
was : for he was a sincere, humble christian ; and, 
having been accustomed to bow to the opinion of 
those whom he considered as his superiors in in- 
tellect and knowledge, he could scarcely believe 
in his own eminence. But it was precious to his 
heart, rather than to his vanity ; as it enabled him 
to indulge those benevolent feelings, which his 
small income had hitherto restrained. At length 
he published a duodecimo volume of poems and 
hymns, still under the name of Alfred, which was 
highly praised in reviews and journals, and a strong 
4 



38 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

desire was expressed to know who the modest, pro- 
mising, and pious writer was. 

Notwithstanding, Darcy could not prevail upon 
himself to disclose his name. He visited his native 
town every year, and in the circle of his family and 
friends, was still considered only as a good sort of 
lad, who had been greatly overrated by his parents 
— was just suited for the situation in which he had 
been placed — and was very fortunate to have been 
received into partnership with the merchant to 
whom he had been clerk. In vain did Darcy some- 
times endeavour to hint that he was an author ; he 
remembered the contempt with which his uncle, 
and relations, had read one of the earliest fruits of 
his muse, when exhibited by his fond father, and 
the advice given to burn such stuff, and not turn 
the head of a dull boy, by making him fancy him- 
self a genius. Therefore, recollecting the wise say- 
ing quoted above, he feared that the news of his 
literary celebrity would not be received with plea- 
sure, and that the affection with which he was now 
welcomed might suffer diminution. Besides , thought 
he, — and then his heart rose in his throat, with a 
choking painful feeling, — those tender parents, 
who would have enjoyed my little fame, are cold 
and unconscious now ; and the ears, to which my 
praises would have been sweet music, cannot hear ; 
therefore methinks I have a mournful pleasure in 
keeping on that veil, the removal of which cannot 
confer pleasure on them." Consequently he re- 
mained contented to be warmly welcomed at D — ■ 
for talents of an humble sort, such as his power for 
mending toys, making kites, and rabbits on the 
wall ; which talents endeared him to all the chil- 
dren of his family and friends ; and, through them, 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 39 

to their parents. Yet it may be asked, was it pos- 
sible that a young man, so gifted, could conceal his 
abilities from observation ? 

Oh, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor 
concerning himself, though he could draw a bill for 
£1000, had never any small change in his pocket. 
Like him he could write, but he could not talk ; he 
was discouraged in a moment ; and the slightest 
rebuff made him hesitate to a painful degree. He 
had, however, some flattering moments, even 
amidst his relations and friends ; for he heard them 
repeating his verses and singing his songs. He had 
also far greater joy in hearing his hymns in places 
of public worship ; and then, too much choked with 
grateful emotion to join in the devotional chorus 
himself, he used to feel his own soul raised to hea- 
ven upon those wings which he had furnished for the 
souls of others. At such moments, he longed to 
discover himself as the author ; but was withheld 
by the fear that his songs would cease to be admi- 
red, and his hymns would lose their usefulness, if it 
were known that he had written them. However, 
he resolved to feel his way ; and once on hearing a 
song of his commended, he ventured to observe, " I 
think I can write as good a one." " You !" cried 
his uncle ; " what a conceited boy ! I remember 
that you used to scribble verses when a child ; but 
I thought you had been laughed out of that non- 
sense." " My dear fellow, nature never meant 
thee for a poet, believe me," said one of his cousins 
conceitedly, — a young collegian. " No, no ; like 
the girl in the drama, thou wouldst make ' love 1 and 
'joy' rhyme, and know no better." " But I have 
written, and I can rhyme," replied Darcy, colouring 
a little. " Indeed !" replied his formal aunt ; " Well, 



40 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

Mr. Darcy Pennington, it really would be very amu- 
sing to see your erudite productions ; perhaps you 
will indulge us some day." " I will ; and then you 
may probably alter your opinion." Soon after 
Darcy wrote an anonymous prose tale in one vo- 
lume, interspersed with poetry, which had even a 
greater run than his other writings ; and it was at- 
tributed first to one person, and then to another ; 
while his publisher was excessively pressed to de- 
clare the name of the author ; but he did not him- 
self know it, as he only knew Darcy, avowedly, un- 
der a feigned name. But, at length, Darcy resol- 
ved to disclose his secret, at least to his relatives 
and friends at D — ; and just as the second edition 
of his tale was nearly completed, he set off for his 
native place, taking with him the manuscript, full 
of the printer's marks, to prove that he was the au- 
thor of it. 

He had one irresistible motive for thus walking 
out from his incognito, like Homer's deities from their 
cloud. He had fallen in love with his second cou- 
sin, Julia Vane, an heiress, and his uncle's ward , 
and had become jealous of himself, as he had, for 
some months, wooed her in anonymous poetry, 
which she, he found, attributed to a gentleman in 
the neighbourhood, whose name he knew not ; and 
she had often declared that, such was her passion 
for poetry, he who could woo her in beautiful verse 
was alone likely to win her heart. 

On the very day of his arrival, he said in the fam- 
ily circle that he had brought down a little manu 
script of his own, which he wished to read to them. 
Oh ! the comical grimaces ! the suppressed laugh 
ter, growing and swelling, however, till it could be 
restrained no longer, which was the result of this re- 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 41 

quest ! And oh ! the looks of consternation when 
Darcy produced the manuscript from his pocket ! 
" Why, Darcy,*" said his uncle, " this is really a 
word and a blow ; but you cannot read it to-night ; 
we are engaged." " Certainly, Mr. Darcy Penning- 
ton," said his aunt, " if you wish to read your as- 
tonishing productions, we are bound in civility to 
hear them ; but we are all going to Sir Hugh Bel- 
son's, and shall venture to take you with us, though 
it is a great favour and privilege to be permitted to 
go on such an occasion ; for a gentleman is staying 
there who has written such a sweet book ! It is 
only just out, yet it cannot be had ; because the first 
edition is sold, and the second not finished. So Sir 
Hugh, for whom your uncle is exerting himself 
against the next election, has been so kind as to in- 
vite us to hear the author read his own work. This 
gentleman does not, indeed, own that he wrote it ; 
still he does not deny it ; and it is clear, by his man- 
ner, that he did write it, and that he would be very 
sorry not to be considered as the writer." " Very 
well, then ; the pleasure of hearing another author 
read his own work shall be delayed," replied Darcy, 
smiling. " Perhaps, when you have heard this gen- 
tleman's, you will not be so eager to read yours, 
Darcy," said Julia Vane ; " for you used to be a 
modest man." Darcy sighed, looked significantly, 
but remained silent. 

In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Belson's, 
where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to delight 
the company, Darcy recognised the gentleman who 
had been pointed out to him as the author of se- 
veral meagre performances handed about in manu- 
script in certain circles ; which owed their celebrity 
to the birth and fashion of the writer, and to the 
4* 



42 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

bribery which is always administered to the self-love 
of those who are the select few chosen to see and 
judge on such occasions. 

Captain Eustace now prepared to read ; but 
when he named the title of the book which he held 
in his hand, Darcy started from his seat in surprise ; 
for it was the title of his own work ! But there 
might be two works with the same title ; and he sat 
down again ; but when the reader continued, and 
he could doubt no longer, he again started up, and, 
with stuttering eagerness, said, "Wh-wh — who, 
sir, did you say, wrote this book ?" " I have nam- 
ed no names, sir," replied Eustace conceitedly ; 
" the author is unknown, and wishes to remain so." 
" Mr. Darcy Pennington," cried his aunt, " sit 
down and be quiet ;" and he obeyed. " Mr. Pen- 
nington," said Sir Hugh, affectedly, "the violet 
must be sought, and is discovered with difficulty, 
you know; for it shrinks from observation, and 
loves the shade." Darcy bowed assent; but fixed 
his eyes on the discovered violet before him with 
such an equivocal expression, that Eustace was dis- 
concerted; and the more so, when Darcy, who 
could not but feel the ludicrous situation in which 
he was placed, hid his face in his handkerchief, and 
was evidently shaking with laughter. " Mr. Darcy 
Pennington,! am really ashamed of you," whispered 
his aunt ; and Darcy recovered his composure. He 
had now two hours of great enjoyment. He heard 
that book admirably read which he had intended to 
read the next day, and knew that he should read 
ill. He heard that work applauded to the skies as 
the work of another, which w 7 ould, he feared, have 
been faintly commended, if known to be his ; 
and he saw the fine eyes of the woman he loved 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES, 43 

drowned in tears, by the power of his own simple 
pathos. The poetry in the book was highly admi- 
red also ; and, when Eustace paused to take breath, 
Julia whispered in his ear, " Captain Eustace is the 
gentleman who, 1 have every reason to believe, 
wrote some anonymous poetry sent me by the post ; 
for Captain Eustace pays me, as you see, marked 
attention ; and as he denies that he wrote the ver- 
ses, exactly as he denies that he wrote the book 
which he is now reading, it is very evident that he 
wrote hath" " I dare say," replied Darcy, colour- 
ing with resentment, " that he as much wrote the 
one as he wrote the other" "What do you mean, 
Darcy ! There can be no doubt of the fact ; and I 
own that I cannot be insensible to such talent ; for 
poetry and poets are my passion, you know ; and in 
his authorship I forget his plainness. Do you not 
think that a woman would be justified in loving a 
man who writes so morally, so piously, and so de- 
lightfully T" " Certainly," replied Darcy, eagerly 
grasping her hand, "provided his conduct be in uni- 
son with his writings ; and I advise you to give the 
writer in question your whole hearty 

After the reading was over, the delighted audi- 
ence crowded round the reader, whose manner of 
receiving their thanks was such, as to make every 
one but Darcy believe the work was his own ; and 
never was the passive lie of vanity more com- 
pletely exhibited ; while Darcy, intoxicated, as it 
were, by the feelings of gratified authorship, and the 
hopes excited by Julia's words, thanked him again 
and again for the admirable manner in which he had 
read the book ; declaring, with great earnestness, 
that he could not have done it such justice himself ; 
adding, that this evening was the happiest of his life 



44 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" Mr. Darcy Pennington, what ails you J" cried 
his aunt ; " you really are not like yourself!" "Hold 
your tongue, Darcy," said his uncle, drawing him 
on one side ; " do not be such a forward puppy ;— 
who ever questioned, or cared, whether you could 
have done it justice or not? But here is the car- 
riage ; and I am glad you have no longer an oppor- 
tunity of thus exposing yourself by your literary and 
critical raptures, which sit as ill upon you, as the ca- 
ressings of the ass in the fable did on him, when he 
pretended to compete with the lapdog in fondling 
his master." 

During the drive home, Darcy did not speak a 
word ; not only because he was afraid of his severe 
uncle and aunt, but, because he was meditating 
how he should make that discovery, on the success 
of which hung his dearest hopes. He was also com- 
muning with his own heart, in order to bring it 
back to that safe humility out of which it had been 
led by the flattering and unexpected events of the 
evening. " Well," said he, while they drew round 
the fire, " as it is not late, suppose I read my work 
to you now. I assure you that it is quite as good 
as that which you have heard." — "Mr. Darcy 
Pennington, you really quite alarm me," cried his 
aunt. " Why so?" — " Because 1 fear that you are 
a little delirious!" — On which Darcy nearly laugh- 
ed himself into convulsions. "Let me feel your 
pulse, Darcy," said his uncle very gravely, — "too 
quick. — I shall send for advice, if you are not bet- 
ter to-morrow ; you look so flushed, and your eyes 
are so bright!" — "My dear uncle," replied Dar- 
cy, " I shall be quite well if you will but hear 
my manuscript before we go to bed." They now 
all looked at each other with increased alarm; 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES, 45 

and Julia, in order to please him, (for she really- 
loved him,) said, "Well, Darcy, if you insist upon 
it; 1 ' — but interrupting her, he suddenly started up, 
and exclaimed, " No ; on second thoughts, I will 
not read it till Captain Eustace and Sir Hugh 
and his family can be present; and they will be 
here the day after to-morrow." — "What ! read your 
nonsense to them!" cried his uncle ; "Poor fellow! 
poor fellow!" But Darcy was gone! he had 
caught Julia's hand to his lips, and quitted the 
room, leaving his relations to wonder, to fear, and 
to pity. But as Darcy was quite composed the 
next day, they all agreed that he must have drunk 
more wine than he or they had been aware of the 
preceding evening. But though Darcy was will- 
ing to wait the ensuing evening, before he disco- 
vered his secret to the rest of the family, he could 
not be easy till he had disclosed it to Julia; for he 
was mortified to find that the pious, judicious Julia 
Vane had* for one moment, believed that a mere 
man of the world, like Captain Eustace, could have 
written such verses as he had anonymously ad- 
dressed to her; verses breathing the very quintes- 
sence of pure love ; and full of anxious interest not 
only for her temporal, but her eternal welfare. 
; No, no," said he ; " she shall not remain in such a 
degrading error one moment longer:" and having 
requested a private interview with her, he disclosed 
the truth. — "What! are you — can you be — did 
ijou write ail!" she exclaimed in broken accents; 
while Darcy gently reproached her for having be- 
lieved that a mere worldly admirer could so have 
written; however, she justified herself by declaring 
how impossible it was to suspect that a man oi 
honour, as Eustace seemed, could be so base as to 



46 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

assume a merit which was not his own. Here she 
paused, turning away from Darcy's penetrating 
look, covered with conscious blushes, ashamed that 
he should see how pleased she was. But she rea- 
dily acknowledged her sorrow at having been be- 
trayed, by the unworthy artifice of Eustace, into 
encouraging his attentions, and was eager to con- 
cert with Darcy the best plan for revealing the 
surprising secret. 

The evening, so eagerly anticipated by Darcy 
and Julia, now arrived; and great was the conster- 
nation of all the rest of the family, when Darcy 
took a manuscript out of his pocket, and began to 
open it. "The fellow is certainly possessed," 
thought his uncle. "Mr. Darcy Pennington," 
whispered his aunt, "I shall faint if you persist in 
exposing yourself!" — " Darcy, I will shut you up 
if you proceed," whispered his uncle; "for you 
must positively be mad." — " Let him go on, dear 
uncle," said Julia; "I am sure you will Be delight 
ed, or ought to be so:" and, spite of his uncle's 
threats and whispers, he addressed Captain Eu- 
stace thus : — - 

" Allow me, sir, to thank you again for the more 
than justice which you did my humble performance 
the other evening. Till I heard you read it, I was 
unconscious that it had so much merit ; and I again 
thank you for the highest gratification which, as an 
author, I ever received." New terror seized every 
one of his family who heard him, except Julia ; 
while wonder filled Sir Hugh and the rest of his 
party — Eustace excepted : he knew that he was 
not the author of the work ; therefore he could not 
dispute the fact that the real author now stood be- 
fore him ; and blushes of detected falsehood cover- 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 47 

ed his cheek ; but, ere he could falter out a reply, 
Darcy's uncle and sons seized him by the arm, and 
insisted on speaking with him in another room. 
Darcy, laughing violently, endeavoured to shake 
them off, but in vain. " Let him alone," said Julia, 
smiling, and coming forward. " Darcy 's ; eye may 
be in a fine frenzy rolling,' as you have all of you 
owned him to be a poet ; but other frenzy than 
that of a poet he has not, I assure you — so pray set 
him at liberty ; /will be answerable for his sanity." 
" What does all this mean V said his uncle, as he 
and his sons unwillingly obeyed. " It means," said 
Darcy, " that I hope not to quit this room till I have 
had the delight of hearing these yet unpublished 
poems of mine read by Captain Eustace. Look, 
Sir," continued he, " here is a signature well known, 
no doubt, to you ; that of Alfred" " Are you in- 
deed Alfred, the celebrated Alfred ?" faltered out 
Eustace. " I believe so," he replied with a smile ; 
14 though on some occasions, you know, it is difficult 
to prove one's personal identity." " True," answered 
Eustace, turning over the manuscript to hide his 
confusion. " And I, Captain Eustace," said Julia, 
44 have had the great satisfaction of discovering that 
my unknown poetical correspondent is my long 
cherished friend and cousin, Darcy Pennington. 
Think how satisfactory this discovery has been to 
me /" " Certainly, Madam," he replied, turning 
pale with emotion ; for he not only saw his Passive 
Lies of Vanity detected, though Darcy had too 
much Christian forbearance even to insinuate that 
he intended to appropriate to himself the fame of 
another, but he also saw, in spite of the kindness 
with which she addressed him, that he had lost 
Julia, and that Darcy had probably gained her. 



48 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

• What is all this?" cried Sir Hugh at last, who, 
with the uncle and aunt, had listened in silent won- 
der. " Why, Eustace, I thought you owned that ?" 
" That I deny ; I owned milling ;" he eagerly re- 
plied. " You insisted on it, nay, every body insisted, 
that I was the author of the beautiful work which 
I read, and of other things ; and if Mr. Pennington 
asserts that he is the author, I give him joy of his 
genius and his fame." " What do I hear !" cried 
the aunt ; " Mr. Darcy Pennington a genius, and 
famous, and I not suspect it !" " Impossible !" 
cried his uncle, pettishly ; " that dull fellow turn 
out a wit ! It cannot be. What ! are you Alfred, 
boy ? I cannot credit it ; for if so, I have been dull 
indeed ;" while his sons seemed to feel as much 
mortification as surprise. " My dear uncle," said 
Darcy, " I am now a professed author. I wrote 
the work which you heard last night. Here it is in 
the manuscript, as returned by the printer ; and 
here is the last proof of the second edition, which 
I received at the post-office just now, directed to 
A. B. ; which is, I think, proof positive that I may 
be Alfred also, who, by your certainly impartial 
praises, is for this evening, at least, in his own eyes, 
elevated into Alfred the Great." 



CHAPTER III. 

ON THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 

The Lies of Flattery are next on my list. 

These lies are, generally speaking, not only un- 
principled, but offensive ; and though they are usual- 
ly told to conciliate good will, the flatterer often fails 
in his attempt; for his intended dupe frequently 
sees through his art, and lie excites indignation 



ON THE LIES OV FLATTERY. 49 

where he meant to obtain regard. - Those who 
know aught of human nature as it really is, and do 
not throw the radiance of their own christian be- 
nevolence over it, must be well aware that few per- 
sons hear with complacency the praises of others, 
even where there is no competition between the 
parties praised and themselves. Therefore, the ob- 
jects of excessive flattery are painfully conscious 
that the praises bestowed on them, in the hearing 
of their acquaintances, will not only provoke those 
auditors to undervalue their pretensions, but to ac- 
cuse them, of believing in and enjoying the gross 
flattery offered to them. There are no persons, in. 
my opinion, with whom it is so difficult to keep up 
" the relations of peace and amity," as flatterers by 
system and habit. Those persons, 1 mean, who deal 
out their flatteries on the same principle as boys 
throw a Jhandful of burs. However unskilfully the 
burs ar6 thrown, the chances are that some will 
stick ; and flatterers expect that some of their com- 
pliments will dwell with, and impose on, their in- 
tended dupe. Perhaps their calculation is not, gen- 
erally considered, an, erroneous one ; but if there be 
any of their fellow-creatures with whom the sensi- 
tive and the discerning may be permitted to loathe 
association, it is with those who presume to address 
them in the language of compliment, too violent 
and unappropriate to deceive even for a moment ; 
while they discover on their lips the flickering sneer 
of contempt contending with its treacherous smile, 
and mark their wily eye looking round in search of 
some responsive one, to which it can communicate 
their sense of the uttered falsehood, and their mean 
exultation over their imagined dupe. The lies of 
benevolence, even when thev can be resolved into 
5 



50 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING, 

lies of flattery, may be denominated amiable lies ; 
but the lie of flattery is usually uttered by the bad- 
hearted and censorious ; therefore to the term lie 
of flattery might be added an alias ; — alias, the 

LIE OF MALEVOLENCE. 

Coarse and indiscriminating flatterers lay it down 
as a rule, that they are to flatter all persons on the 
qualities which they have not. Hence, they flatter 
the plain, on their beauty ; the weak, on their in- 
tellect ; the dull, on their wit ; believing, in the sar- 
castic narrowness of their conceptions, that no one 
possesses any self-knowledge ; but that every one 
implicitly believes the truth of the eulogy bestowed. 
This erroneous view taken by the flatterer of the 
penetration of the flattered, is common only in those 
who have mdre cunning than intellect ; more shrewd- 
ness than penetration ; and whose knowledge of the 
weakness of our nature has been gathered, not from 
deep study of the human heart, but from the depra- 
vity of their own, or from the pages of ancient and mo- 
dern satirists ; — those who have a mean, malignant 
pleasure, in believing in the absence of all moral truth 
amongst their usual associates ; and are glad to be 
able to comfort themselves for their own conscious 
dereliction from a high moral standard, by the con- 
viction that they are, at least, as good as their neigh- 
bours. Yes ; my experience tells me that the above- 
mentioned rule of flattery is acted upon only by the 
half-enlightened, who take for superiority of intel- 
lect that base low cunning, 

which, in fools, supplies, 

And amply too, the place of being wise. 

But the deep observer of human nature knows 
that where there is real intellect, there are discern- 
ment and self-knowledge also ; and that the really 



OF THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 51 

intelligent are aware to how much praise and ad- 
miration they are entitled, be it encomium on their 
personal or mental qualifications. 

I beg to give one illustration of the Lie of Flatte- 
ry, in the following tale, of which the offending he- 
roine is a female ; though, as men are the licensed 
flatterers of women, I needed not to have feared the 
imputation of want of candour, had I taken my ex- 
ample from one of the wiser sex. 



THE TURBAN; 

OR 

THE LIE OF FLATTERY. 

Some persons are such determined flatterers 
both by nature and habit, that they flatter uncon- 
sciously, and almost involuntarily. Such a flatter- 
er was Jemima Aldred ; but, as the narrowness of 
her fortune made her unable to purchase the luxu- 
ries of life in which she most delighted, she was also 
a conscious and voluntary flatterer whenever she 
was with those who had it in their power to indulge 
her favourite inclinations. 

There was one distinguished woman in the cir- 
cle of her acquaintance, whose favour she was par- 
ticularly desirous of gaining, and who was therefore 
the constant object of her flatteries. This lady, who 
was rendered, by her situation, her talents, and her 
virtues, an object of earthly worship to many of 
her associates, had a good-natured indolence about 
her, which made her receive the incense offered, as 
if she believed in its sincerity. But the flattery of 
young Jemima was so gross, and so indiscriminate, 
that it sometimes converted the usual gentleness of 
Lady DelavaTs nature into gall ; and she felt indig- 



52 ILLUSTRATlOx^S OF LYI&G. 

nant at being supposed capable of relishing adula- 
tion so excessive, and devotion so servile. But, as 
she was full of christian benevolence, and, conse- 
quently, her first desire was to do good, she allow* 
ed pity for the poor girrs ignorance to conquer re- 
sentment, and laid a plan, in order to correct and 
amend her, if possible, by salutary mortification. 

Accordingly, she invited Jemima, and some other 
young ladies, to spend a whole day with her at 
her house in the country. But, as the truly bene- 
volent are always reluctant to afflict any one, even 
though it be to improve, Lady Delaval would have 
shrunk from the task which she had imposed on 
herself, had not Jemima excited her into perseve- 
rance, by falling repeatedly and grossly into her be- 
setting sin during the course of the day. For in- 
stance : Laxly Delaval, who usually left the choice 
of her ribbands to her milliner, as she was not studi- 
ous of her personal appearance, wore colours at 
breakfast that morning which she thought ill-suited 
both to her years and complexion ; and having ask- 
ed her guests how they liked her scarf and rib- 
bands, they pronounced them to be beautiful 
" But surely, they do net become my olive, ill- 
looking skin!" — G 'They are certainly not becom- 
ing," was the ingenuous reply of all but Jemima 
Aldred, who persisted in asserting that the colour 
was as becoming as it was brilliant ; adding, "I do 
not know what dear Lady Delaval means by under- 
valuing Jher own clear complexion." — " The less 
that is said about that the better, I believe," she 
dryly replied, not trying to conceal the sarcastic 
smile which played upon her lip, and feeling 
strengthened, by this new instance of Jemima's du- 
plicity, to go on with her design ; but Jemima 



THE TURBAN. 53 

thought she had endeared herself to her by flatter- 
ing her personal vanity ; and, while her compa- 
nions frowned reproach for her insincerity , she wish- 
ed for an opportunity of reproving their rudeness. 
After tea, Lady Delaval desired her maid to bring 
her down the foundation for a turban, which she 
was going to pin up, and some other finery prepa- 
red for the same purpose ; and in a short time the 
most splendid materials for millenary shone upon 
the table. When she began her task, her other 
guests, Jemima excepted, worked also, but she was 
sufficiently employed, she said, in watching the 
creative and tasteful fingers of her friend. At first, 
Lady Delaval made the turban of silver tissue ; and 
Jemima was in ecstacies : but the next moment 
she declared that covering to be too simple ; and 
Jemima thought so too ; — while she was in equal 
ecstacies at the effect of a gaudy many-coloured 
gauze which replaced its modest costliness. But 
still her young companions openly preferred the sil- 
ver covering, declaring that the gay one could only 
be tolerated if nothing else of showy ornament were 
superadded. They gave, however, their opinion 
in vain. Coloured stones, a gold band, and a 
green spun-glass feather, were all in their turn 
heaped upon this showy head-dress, while Jemima 
exulted over every fresh addition, and admired it 
as a new proof of Lady DelavaPs taste. "Now, 
then, it is completed," cried Lady Delaval; "but 
no ; suppose I add a scarlet feather to the green 
one ;" " Oh ! that would be superb ;" and having 
given this desirable finish to her performance, Je- 
mima declared it to be perfect ; but the rest of the 
company were too honest to commend it. Lady 
Delaval then put it on her head ; and it was as un- 
5* 



54 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

becoming as it was ugly : but Jemima exclaimed 
that her dear friend had never worn any thing be- 
fore in which she looked so well, adding, " But 
then she looks well in every thing. However, that 
lovely turban would become any one." — " Try 
how it would fit you !" said Lady Delaval, putting 
it on her head. Jemima looked in a glass, and 
saw that to her short, small person, little face, and 
little turned-up nose, such an enormous mass of 
finery was the destruction of all comeliness { but, 
while the by-standers laughed immoderately at her 
appearance, Jemima was loud in her admiration, 
and volunteered a wish to wear it at some puWc 
place — " for I think, I do look so well in it !" cried 
Jemima. " If so," said her hostess, " you, young 
ladies, on this occasion, have neither taste nor 
eyes ;" while Jemima danced about the room, ex- 
ulting in her heavy head-dress, in the triumph of her 
falsehood, and in the supposed superior ascendancy 
it had gained her over her hostess above that of her 
more sincere companions. Nor, when Lady De- 
laval expressed her fear that the weight might be 
painful, would she allow it to be removed ; but she 
declared that she liked the burden. At parting, 
Lady Delaval, in a tone of great significance, told 
her that she should hear from her the next day. 
The next morning Jemima often dwelt on these 
marked words, impatient for an explanation of 
thean ; between twelve and one o'clock, a servant 
of Lady Delaval 's brought a letter and a bandbox. 
The letter was first opened ; and was as follows : 

" Dear Jemima, 

" As I know that you have long wished to visit 
my niece, Lady Ormsby, and also to attend the as- 



THE TURBAN. 55 

tronomical lecture on the grand transparent orrery, 

which is to be given at the public rooms this even- 
ing, for the benefit of the Infirmary ; I though your 
praise-worthy prudence prevented you from subscri- 
bing to it,-I have great pleasure in enclosing you a 
ticket for the lecture, and in informing you that I 
will call and take you to dinner at Lady Ormsby's 
at four o'clock, whence you and 1, and the rest of 
the party, (which will be a splendid one) shall ad- 
journ to the lecture. ..-..." " How kind ! how 
very kind !" exclaimed Jemima; but, in her heart, 
imputing these favours to her recent flatteries ; and 
reading no farther, she ran to her mother's apart- 
ment to declare the joyful news. " Oh ! mamma !" 
exclaimed she, " how fortunate it was that I made 
up my died gauze when I did ! and I can wear na- 
tural flowers in my hair ; and they are so beco- 
ming, as well a$ cheap." She then returned to her 
own room, to finish the letter and explore the con- 
tents of the box. But what was her consternation 

on reading the following words : " But I 

shall take you to the dinner, and I give you the 
ticket for the lecture, only on this express condi- 
tion, — that you wear the accompanying turban, 
which was decorated according to your taste and 
judgment, and in which you were conscious of look- 
ing so well ! — Every additional ornament was be- 
stowed to please you ; and as I know that your wish 
will be not to deprive me of a head-dress in which 
your partial eyes thought that I looked so charm- 
ingly, I positively assure you that no consideration 
shall ever induce me to wear it ; and that I expect 
you to meet my summons, arrayed in your youthful 
loveliness and my turban." 

Jemima sat in a sort of stupor after perusing 



56 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

this epistle ; and when she started from it, it 
was to carry the letter and the turban to her 
mother. " Read that ! and look at that !" she ex- 
claimed, pointing to the turban. " Why to be 
sure, Jemima, Lady Delaval must be making game 
of you," she replied. " What could produce such 
an absurd requisition ?" When called upon to an- 
swer this question, Jemima blushed ; and, for the 
first time, feeling some compunctious visitings of 
conscience, she almost hesitated to own that the an- 
noying conditions were the consequence of her flat- 
teries. Still, to comply with them was impossible ; 
and to go to the dinner and lecture without them, 
and thereby perhaps affront Lady Delaval, was im- 
possible also. "What, expect me to hide my 
pretty hair under that preposterous mountain ? 
Never, never !" Vainly, now, did she try to ad- 
mire it ; and she felt its weight insupportable. 
" To be sure," said she to herself, " Captain Les- 
lie and George Vaux will dine at Lady Ormsby's, 
and go to the lecture ; but then they will not bear 
to look at me in this frightful head-dress, and will so 
quiz me ; and I am sure they will think me too great 
a quiz to sit by ! No, no ; much as I wish to go, 
and I do so very, very much wish it, I cannot go on 
these cruel conditions.'" " But what excuse can 
you make to Lady Delaval V " I must tell her 
that I have a bad toothach, and cannot go ; and I 
will write her a note to say so ; and at the same 
time return the ugly turban." She did so ; — but 
when she saw Lady Delaval pass to the fine dinner, 
and heard the carriages at night going to the 
crowded lecture, she shed tears of bitterness and 
regret, and lamented that she had not dared to go 
without the conditional and detestable turban, The 



THE TURBAN. 57 

next day she saw Lady DelavaFs carriage drive up 
to the door, and also saw the servant take a band- 
box out. " Oh dear, mamma," cried Jemima, " I 
protest that ridiculous old woman has brought her 
ugly turban back again I" and it was with a forced 
smile of welcome that she greeted Lady Delaval. 
That lady entered the room with a graver and 
more dignified mien -than usual ; for she came to 
reprove, and, she hoped, amend ap offender against 
those principles of truth which she honoured, and 
to which she uniformly acted m. Just before La- 
dy 'Delaval appeared, Jemima recollected that she 
was to have the toothach ; therefore she tied up her 
face, adding a practical lie to the many already 
told ; for one lie is sure to make many. " I was 
sorry to find that you were not able to accompany 
me to the dinner and lecture," said she ; " and 
were kept at home by the toothach. Was that 
your only reason for staying at home ?" "'Certain- 
ly, Madam ; can you doubt it V* " Yes ; for I 
have strong suspicion that the toothach is a pre- 
tence, not a reality." " This from you, Lady 
Delaval ! my once kind friend." " Jemima, I am 
come to prove myself a far kinder friend than ever 
I did before. I am glad to find you alone ; be- 
cause I should not have liked to reprove a child be- 
fore her mother." Lady Delaval then reproached 
her astonished auditor with the mean habit of flat- 
tery in which she was so apt to indulge ; assuring 
her that she had never been for one moment her 
dupe, and had insisted on her wearing the turban, 
in order to punish her despicable duplicity. " Had 
you not acted thus," continued Lady Delaval, " I 
meant to have taken you to the dinner and lecture, 
without conditions ; but I wished to inflict on you 



58 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

a salutary punishment, in hopes of convincing you 
that there are no qualities so safe, or so pleasing, as 
truth and ingenuousness. I saw you cast an alarm- 
ed look at the hat-box," she added, in a gayer tone ; 
" but fear not ; the turban is no more ; and, in its 
stead, I have taken the liberty of bringing you a 
Leghorn bonnet ; and should you, while you wear 
it, feel any desire to flatter, in your usual degrading 
manner, may it remind you of this conversation, 
and its cause, — and make your present mortifica- 
tion the means of your future good." At this mo- 
ment Jemima's mother entered the room, exclaim- 
ing : " Oh ! Lady Delaval ! I am glad you are 
come ! my poor child's toothach is so bad ! and 

how unfortunate that" Lady Delaval cast 

on the mistaken mother a look of severe reproof, 
and on the daughter one of pity and unavailing re- 
gret ; for she felt that, for the child who is hourly 
exposed to the contagion of an unprincipled pa- 
rent's example, there can be little chance for amend- 
ment ; and she hastened to her carriage, convinced 
that for poor Jemima Aldred her labours of christian 
duty had been exerted in vain. She would have 
soon found how just her conviction was, had she 
heard the dialogue between the mother and daugh- 
ter, as soon as she drove off. Jemima dried up her 
hypocritical tears, and exclaimed, " A cross, me- 
thodistical creature ! I am glad she is gone !" — 
" What do you mean, child? and what is all this 
about?" Jemima having told her, she exclaimed, 
" Why the woman is mad ! What ! object to a 
little harmless flattery ! and call that lying, indeed ! 
Nonsense ! it is all a pretence. She hate flattery ! 
no, indeed ; if you were to tell her the truth, she 
would hate you like poison." — "Very likely; but 



Me Durban. 59 

see, mamma, what she has given me. What a 
beautiful bonnet! But she owed it to me, for the 
trick she played me, and for her preaching.'' — 
" Well, child," answered her mother, " let her 
preach to you every day, and welcome, if she 
comes, as to-day, full-handed." 

Such was the effect of Lady DelavaPs kind ef- 
forts, on a mother so teaching, and a daughter so 
taught ; for indelible indeed are those habits of 
falsehood and disingenuousness which children ac- 
quire, whose parents do not make a strict adherence 
to truth the basis of their children's education; and 
punish all deviation from it with salutary rigour. 
But, whatever be the excellencies or the errors of 
parents or preceptors, there is one necessary thing 
for them to remember, or their excellencies will be 
useless, and their faults irremediable ; namely, that 
they are not to form their children for the present 
world alone ; — they are to educate them not mere- 
ly as the children of time, but as the heirs of eternity. 



CHAPTER IV. 

LIES OF FEAR. 

I once believed that the lie of fear was confined 
to the low and uneducated of both sexes, and to 
children ; but further reflection and observation 
have convinced me that this is by no means the 
case ; but that, as this lie springs from the want of 
moral courage, and as this defect is by no means 
confined to any class or age, the result of it, that 
fear of man which prompts to the lie of fear, must 
be universal also ; though the nature of the dread 
may be various, and of different degrees of strength. 
For instance ; a child or a servant (of course I 



60 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

speak of ill-educated children) breaks a toy or a 
glass, and denies having done so. Acquaintances 
forget to execute commissions entrusted to them ; 
and either say that they are executed, when they 
are not, or make some false excuses for an omis- 
sion which was the result of forgetfulness only. No 
persons are guilty of so many of this sort of lies, in 
the year, as negligent correspondents ; since ex- 
cuses for not writing sooner are usually lies of fear 
— fear of having forfeited favour by too long a 
silence. 

As the lie of fear always oroceeds, as I have be- 
fore observed, from a want of moral courage, it is 
often the result of want of resolution to say " no," 
when " yes" is more agreeable to the feelings of 
the questioner. " Is not my new gown pretty ?" 
" Is not my new hat becoming ?" " Is not my 
coat of a good colour?" There are few persons 
who have courage to say " no," even to these tri- 
vial questions ; though the negative would be truth, 
and the ufiirma&iye,falsehQod. And still less are they 
able to be honest in their replies to questions of a 
more delicate nature. " Is not my last work the 
best V " Is not my wife beautiful ?" " Is not my 
daughter agreeable ?" "Is not my son afine youth ?" 
Those ensnaring questions, which contented and 
confiding egotism is only too apt to ask. 

Fear of wounding the feelings of the interrogator 
prompts an affirmative answer; But, perhaps, a lie 
on these occasions is one of the least displeasing, 
because it may possibly proceed from a kind aver- 
sion to give pain, and occasion disappointment; and 
has a degree of relationship, a distant family resem- 
blance to the lie of benevolence ; though, when 
accurately analysed, even this good natured false- 



THE feANK-NOTE. 61 

hood may be resolved into selfish dread of losing fa- 
vour by speaking the truth. Of these pseudolies of 
benevolence I shall treat in their turn ; but I shall now 
proceed to relate a story, to illustrate the lie or 
tear, and its important results, under apparently 
unimportant circumstances. 



THE BANK-NOTE. 

" Are yen returning immediately to Worcester?" 
said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near that city, 
to a young officer who was paying her a morning 
visit. " I am ; can I do any thing for you there ?" 
" Yes ; you can do me a great kindness. My con- 
fidential servant, Baynes, is gone out for the day and 
night ; and I do not like to trust my new footman, 
of whom I know nothing, to put this letter in the 
post-office, as it contains a fifty-pound note.'" " In- 
deed ! that is a large sum to trust to the post." " Yes 
but I am told it is the safest conveyance. It is, how- 
ever, quite necessary that a person whom I can 
trust should put the letter in the box." " Certainly," 
replied Captain Freeland. Then, with an air that 
showed he considered himself as a person to be 
trusted, he deposited the letter in safety in his 
pocket-book, and took leave ; promising he would 
return to dinner the next day, which was Satur- 
day. 

On his road, Freeland met some of his brother- 
officers, who were going to pass the day and night 
at Great Malvern ; and as they earnestly pressed 
him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the letter 
entrusted to his care ; and, having despatched his 
6 



62 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

servant to Worcester, for his sac-de-nuit* and other 
things, he turned back with his companions, and 
passed the rest of the day in that sauntering, but 
amusing idleness, that dolce far nienie,} which may 
be reckoned comparatively vrituous, if it leads to the 
forgetfulness of little duties only, and is not attended 
by the positive infringement of greater ones. But, 
in not putting this important letter into the post, as 
he had engaged to do, Freeland violated a real du- 
ty ; and he might have put it in at Malvern, had 
not the rencounter with his brother-officers banish- 
ed the commission given him entirely from his 
thoughts. Nor did he remember it till, as they rode 
through the village the next morning, on their way 
to Worcester, they met Lady Leslie walking in the 
road. 

At sight of her, Freeland recollected with shame 
and confusion that he had not fulfilled the charge 
committed to him ; and fain would he have passed 
her unobserved ; for, as she was a woman of high 
fashion, great talents, and some severity, he was 
afraid that his negligence, if avowed, would not 
only cause him to forfeit her favour, but expose him 
to her powerful sarcasm. 

To avoid being recognised was, however, impos- 
sible ; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, she ex- 
claimed, " Oh ! Captain Freeland, I am so glad to 
see you ! I have been quite uneasy concerning my 
letter since I gave it to your care ; for it was of such 
consequence ! Did you put it into the post yester- 
day ?" "Certainly," replied Freeland, hastily, 
and in the hurry of the moment, " Certainly. How 
could you, dear Madam, doubt my obedience to 

* Night bag. f Sweet doing nothing. 



THE BANK NOTE. 63 

vour commands ?" " Thank you ! thank you !" 
cried she, " How you have relieved my mind !" He 
had so ; but he had painfully burthened his own. 
To be sure it was only a white lie, — the lie of fear. 
Still he was not used to utter falsehood ; and he 
felt the meanness and degradation of this. He had 
yet to learn that it was mischievous also ; and that 
none can presume to say where the consequences 
of the most apparently trivial lie will end. As soon 
as Freeland parted with Lady Leslie, lie bade his 
friends farewell, and putting spur to his horse, 
scarcely slackened his pace till he had reached 
a general post-office, and deposited the letter in 
safety. " Nov/, then,'" thought he, "I hope I shall 
be able to return and dine with Lady Leslie, with- 
out shrinking from her penetrating eye." 

He found her, when he arrived, very pensive 
and absent ; so much so, that she felt it necessary 
to apologize to her guests, informing them that Ma- 
ry Benson, an old servant of hers, who was very dear 
to her, was seriously ill, and painfully circumstan- 
ced ; and that she feared she had not done her du- 
ty by her. " To tell you the truth, Captain Free- 
land," said she, speaking to him in a low voice, 
" I blame myself for not having sent for my con- 
fidential servant, who was not very far off, and 
despatched him with trie money, instead of trusting 
it to the post." " It would have been better to 
have done so, certainly /" replied Freeland, deeply 
blushing. " Yes ; for the poor woman, to whom 
I sent it, is not only herself on the point of being 
confined, but she has a sick husband, unable to be 
moved ; and as (but owing to no fault of his) he is 
on the point of bankruptcy, his cruel landlord has 
declared that, if they do not pay their rent by to- 



64 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

morrow, he will turn them out into the street, and 
seize the very bed they lie on ! However, as you put 
the letter into the post yesterday, they must get the 
fifty-pound note to day, else they could not ; for 
there is no delivery of letters in London on a Sun- 
day, you know." " True, very true," replied 
Freeland, in a tone which he vainly tried to render 
steady. " Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, 
M if you had told me, when we met, that the letter 
was not gone, I should have recalled Baynes, and 
sent him off by the mail to London ; and then he 
would have reached Somerstown, where the Ben- 
sons live, in good time ; but now, though I own it 
would be a comfort to me to send him, for fear of 
accident, I could not get him back again soon 
enough ; — therefore, I must let things take their 
chance ; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only 
danger is, that the note may be taken out." She 
might have talked an hour without answer or inter- 
ruption ; — for Freeland was too much shocked, too 
much conscience-stricken, to reply; as he found 
that he had not only {old a falsehood, but that, if he 
had had moral courage enough to tell the truth, the 
mischievous negligence of which he had been guil- 
ty could have been repaired ; but now, as Lady 
Leslie said, " it was too late !" 

But, while Lady Leslie became talkative, and 
able to perform her duties to her friends, after she 
had thus unburthened her mind to Freeland, he 
grew every minute more absent, and more taciturn ; 
and though he could not eat with appetite, he threw 
down, rather than drank, repeated glasses of hock 
and champagne to enable him to rally his spirits ; 
but in vain. A naturally ingenuous and generous 
nature cannot shake off the first compunctious visit- 



THE BANK-NOTE. 65 

ings of conscience for having committed an unwor- 
thy action, and having also been the means of in- 
jury to another. All on a sudden, however, his 
countenance brightened ; and as soon as the ladies 
left the table, he started up, left his compliments 
and excuses with Lady Leslie's nephew, who pre- 
sided at dinner ; said he had a pressing call to 
Worcester ; and, when there, as the London mail 
was gone, he threw himself into a postchaise, and 
set off for Somerstown, which Lady Leslie had 
named as the residence of Mary Benson. " At 
least," said Freeland to himself with a lightened 
heart, " I shall now have the satisfaction of doing 
all I can to repair my fault." But owing to the 
delay occasioned by want of horses, and by finding 
the ostlers at the inns in bed, he did not reach Lon- 
don and the place of his destination till the wretch- 
ed family had been dislodged ; while the unhappy 
wife was weeping, not only over the disgrace of be- 
ing so removed, and for her own and her husband's 
increased illness in consequence of it, but from the 
agonizing suspicion that the mistress and friend, 
whom she had so long loved, and relied upon, had 
disregarded the tale of her sorrows, and had refused 
to relieve her necessities ! Freeland soon found a 
conductor to the mean lodging in which the Ben- 
sons had obtained shelter; for they were well 
known, and their hard fate was generally pitied : 
— but it was some time before he could speak, as 
he stood by their bedside — -he was choked with 
painful emotion at first ; with pleasing emotions af- 
terwards : — for his conscience smote him for the 
pain he had occasioned, and applauded him for the 
pleasure which he came to bestow. " I come," 
said he, at length, (while the sufferers waited in al- 
6* 



66 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

most angry wonder, to hear his reason for thus in- 
truding on them,) " I come to tell you, from your 
kind friend, Lady Leslie'" — u Then she has not 
forgotten me !" screamed out the poor woman, al- 
most gasping for breath. " No, to be sure not : — 
she could not forget you ; she was incapable . . . ." 
here his voice wholly failed him. " Thank hea- 
ven !" cried she, tears trickling down her pale cheek. 
" I can bear any thing now ; for that was the bit- 
terest part of all !^ — ' ; My good woman," said 
Freeland, " it was owing to a mistake : — pshaw ! 
no : it Was owing to my fault, that you did not re- 
ceive a £50 note by the post yesterday : M — 
"£50 P'cried the poor man, wringing his hands, 
"why that would have more than paid all we owed ; 
and I could have gone on with my business, and 
our lives would not have been risked, nor I dis- 
graced!" Freeland now turned away, unable to 
say a word more ; but recovering himself, he again 
drew near them; and, throwing his purse to the 
agitated speaker, said, "there ! get well ! only get 
well! and whatever you want shall be yours ! or 
I shall never lose this horrible choking again while 
I live !" 

Freeland took a walk after this scene, and with 
hasty, rapid strides ; the painful choking being his 
companion very often during the course of it,— for 
he was haunted by the image of those whom he 
had disgraced; — and he could not help remember- 
ing that, however blameable his negligence might 
be, it was nothing, either in sinfulness or mischief, 
to the lie told to conceal it ; and that, but for that 
lie of fear, the effect of his negligence might 
have been repaired in time. 

But he was resolved that he would not leave 



THE BANK-NOTE. 67 

Somerstown till he had seen these poor people set- 
tled in a good lodging. He therefore hii*ed a con- 
veyance for them, and superintended their removal 
that evening to apartments full of every necessary 
comfort. " My good friends," said lie, " I can- 
not recall the mortification and disgrace which you 
have endured through my fault ; but I trust that' 
you will have gained, in the end, by leaving a cruel 
landlord, who had no pity for your unmerited po- 
verty. Lady Leslie's note will, I trust, reach you 
to-morrow ; — but if not, I will make up the loss ; 
therefore be easy ! and when I go away, may I 
have the comfort of knowing that your removal 
has done you no harm !" 

He then, but not till then, had courage to write 
to Lady Leslie, and tell her the whole truth ; con- 
cluding his letter thus : 

" If your interesting proteges have not suffered 
in their health, I shall not regret what has happen- 
ed ; because I trust that it will be a lesson to me 
through life, and teach me never to tell even the 
most apparently trivial white lie again. How un- 
important this violation of truth appeared to me at 
the moment ! and how sufficiently motived ! as it 
was to avoid falling in your estimation ; but it was, 
you see, overruled for evil; — and agony of mind, 
disgrace, and perhaps risk of life, were the conse- 
quences of it to innocent individuals ; — not to men- 
tion my own pangs — the pangs of an upbraiding 
conscience. But forgive me, my dear Lady Leslie. 
However, I trust that this evil, so deeply repented 
of, will be blessed to us all ; but it will be long be- 
fore I forgive myself. 1 '' 

Lady Leslie was delighted with this candid let- 
ter, though grieved by its painful details, while she 



68 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

viewed with approbation the amends which her 
young friend had made, and his modest disregard 
of his own exertions. 

The note arrived in safety ; and Freeland left 
the afflicted couple better in health, and quite hap- 
py in mind ; — as his bounty and Lady Leslie's had 
ieft them nothing to desire in a pecuniary point of 
view. 

When Lady Leslie and he met, she praised his 
virtue, while she blamed his fault ; and they forti- 
fied each other in the wise and moral resolution, 
never to violate truth again, even on the slightest 
occasion ; as a lie, when told, however unimportant 
it may at the time appear, is like an arrow shot 
over a house, whose course is unseen, and may be 
unintentionally the cause, to some one, of agony or 
death. 



CHAPTER V. 

LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 

These are lies which are occasioned by a selfish 
dread of losing favour, and provoking displeasure, 
by speaking the truth, rather than by real benevo 
lence. Persons, calling themselves benevolent, 
withhold disagreeable truths, and utter agreeable 
falsehoods, from a wish to give pleasure, or to 
avoid giving pain. If you say that you are looking 
ill, they tell you that you are looking well. If you 
express a fear that you are growing corpulent, they 
say you are only just as fat as you ought to be. If 
you are hoarse in singing, and painfully conscious 
of it, they declare that they did not perceive it 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 69 

And this not from the desire of flattering you, or 
from the malignant one of wishing to render you ri- 
diculous, by imposing on your credulity, but from 
the desire of making you pleased with yourself. In 
short, they lay it down as a rule, that you must 
never scruple to sacrifice the truth, when the al- 
ternative is giving the slightest pain or mortification 
to any one. 

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the 
lies of fear or of benevolence preponderate, in the 
following trifling but characteristic anecdote. 



A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 

Most mistresses of families have a family receipt- 
book ; and are apt to believe that no receipts are 
so good as their own. 

With one of these notable ladies a young house- 
keeper went to pass a few days, both at her town 
and country-house. The hostess was skilled, not 
only in culinary lore, but in economy ; and was in 
the habit of setting on her table, even when not 
alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had led 
her to pot, pickle, or preserve, for occasional use. 

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, a 
dish of potted sprats was set before the lady of 
the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, 
derived from a family receipt of a century old, 
pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them. 

The dish was as good as much salt and little 
spice could make it; but it had one peculiarity — 
it had a strong flavour of garlick, and to garlick the 
poor guest had a great dislike. 

But she was a timid woman ; and good-breed- 



70 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

ing, and what she called benevolence, said, " per- 
severe a swallow," though her palate said, " no/' 
" Is it not excellent ?" said the hostess. — " Very ;" 
faltered out the half-suffocated guest; — and this 
was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any thing 
like it before ?" — " Never," replied the other more 
firmly ; for then she knew that she spoke the truth, 
and longing to add, " and I hope I never shall eat 
any thing like it again." " I will give you the 
receipt," said the lady, kindly ; " it will be of use to 
you as a young housekeeper ; for it is economi- 
cal, as well as good, and serves to make out, when 
we have a scrap-dinner. My servants often dine 
on it." " I wonder you can get any servants to live 
with you," thought the guest ; " but I dare say 
you do not get any one to stay long !" " You do 
not, however, eat as if you liked it." " O yes indeed, 
I do, very much," (lie the second) she replied ; 
" but you forget I have already eaten a good din- 
ner ;" (lie the third. Alas ! what had benevolence, 
so called, to answer for on this occasion !) 

" Well, I am delighted to find that you like my 
sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth 
was removing : adding, " John ! do not let those 
sprats be eaten in the kitchen!" an order which the 
guest heard with indescribable alarm. 

The next day they were to set off for the coun- 
try-house, or cottage. When they were seated in 
the carriage, a large box was put in, and the guest 
fancied she smelt garlick; but 

" . . . . where ignorance is bliss, 
u 'Tis folly to be wise." 

She therefore asked no questions ; but tried to 
&yoy the present, regardless of the future. At a 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 7i 

certain distance they stopped to bait the horses, 
There the guest expected that they should get out, 
and take some refreshment ; but her economical 
companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, observ- 
ed, " I always sit in the carriage on these occa- 
sions. If one gets out, the people at the inn expect 
one to order a luncheon. I therefore take mine 
with me." So saying, John was summoned to drag 
the carnage out of sight of the inn windows. He 
then unpacked the box, took out of it knives and 
forks, plates, &c, and also a jar, which, impreg- 
nating the air with its effluvia, even before it was 
opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that its con- 
tents were the dreaded sprats ! 

" Alas !" thought she, " Pandora's box was no- 
thing to this ! for in that, Hope remained behind ; 
but, at the bottom of this is Despair !" In vain 
did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) that 
" she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she 
never ate in the morning." Her hostess would take 
no denial. However, she contrived to get a piece 
of sprat down, enveloped in bread ; and the rest 
she threw out of the window, when her companion 
was looking another way — who, on turning round, 
exclaimed, "so, you have soon despatched the 
fish ! let me give you another ; do not refuse, be- 
cause you think they are nearly finished ; I assure 
you there are several left ; and (delightful informa- 
tion !) we shall have a fresh supply to-morrow ]" 
However, this time she was allowed to know when 
she had eaten enough ; and the travellers proceeded 
to their journey's end. 

This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner; — 
but, there being only a few left, they were kept for 
a bonne bouche, and reserved for supper ! & meal 



72 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

of which, this evening, on account of indisposition, 
the hostess did not partake, and was therefore at 
liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her guest, 
who would fain have declined eating also, but it was 
impossible ; she had just declared that she was 
quite well, and had often owned that she enjoyed a 
piece of supper after an early dinner. There was 
therefore no retreat from the maze in which her 
insincerity had involved her ; and eat she must : 
but, when she again smelt on her plate the nause- 
ous composition, which being near the bottom of 
the pot was more disagreeable than ever, human 
patience and human infirmity could bear no more ; 
the scarcely tasted morsel fell from her lips, and she 
rushed precipitately into the open air, almost dis- 
posed to execrate, in her heart, potted sprats, the 
good breeding of her officious hostess, and even Be- 
nevolence itself. 



Some may observe on reading this story, " What 
a foolish creature the guest must have been ! and 
how improbable it is that any one should scruple to 
say, the dish is disagreeable, and I hate garlick !" 
But it is my conviction that the guest, on this occa- 
sion, exhibited only a slightly exaggerated specimen 
of the usual conduct of those who have been taught 
to conduct themselves wholly by the artificial rules 
of civilized society, of which, generally speaking, 
falsehood is the basis. 

Benevolence is certainly one of the first of virtues 
and its result is an amiable aversion to wound the 
feelings of others, even in trifles ; therefore benevo- 
lence and politeness may be considered as the same 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 75 

thing ; but Worldly Politeness is only a copy of 
benevolence. Benevolence is gold : this politeness 
a paper currency, contrived as its substitute ; as so- 
ciety, being aware that benevolence is as rare as it 
is precious, and that few are able to distinguish, in 
any thing, the false from the true, resolved, in lieu 
of benevolence, to receive worldly politeness, 
with all her train of deceitful welcomes, heart- 
less regrets, false approbations, and treacherous 
smiles ; those alluring seemings, which shine around 
her brow, and enable her to pass for Benevolence 
herself. 

But how must the religious and the moral dis- 
like the one, though they venerate the other ! The 
kindness of the worldly Polite only lives its little 
hour in one's presence ; but that of the Benevolent 
retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. The 
worldly polite will often make the objects of their 
greatest flatteries and attentions when present, the 
butt of their ridicule as soon as they see them no 
more ; — while the benevolent hold the characters 
and qualities of their associates in a sort of holy 
keeping at all times, and are as indulgent to the ab- 
sent as they were attentive to the present. The 
kindness of the worldly polite is the gay and pleas- 
ing flower worn in the bosom, as the ornament of a 
few hours ; then suffered to fade, and thrown by, 
when it is wanted no longer ; — but that of the real- 
ly benevolent is like the fresh-springing evergreen, 
which blooms on through all times, and all seasons, 
unfading in beauty, and undiminishing in sweetness. 
But, it may be asked, whether I do not admit that 
the principle of never wounding the self-love or 
feelings of any one is a benevolent principle; and 
whether it be not commendable to act on it conti« 
7 



74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

nually. Certainly ; if sincerity goes hand in hand 
with benevolence. But where is your benevolence, 
if you praise those, to their faces, whom you abuse 
as soon as they have left you ? — where your be- 
nevolence, if you welcome those, with smiling ur- 
banity, whom you see drive off with a " Well ; I 
am glad they are gone V And how common is it, 
to hear persons, who think themselves very moral, 
and very kind, begin, as soon as their guests are 
departed, and even when they are scarcely out of 
hearing, to criticise their dress, their manners, and 
their characters ; while the poor unconscious visi- 
ters, the dupes of their deceitful courtesy, are go- 
ing home delighted with their visit, and sajang what 
a charming evening they have passed, and what 
agreeable and kind-hearted persons the master and 
mistress of the house and their family are ! — 
Surely, then, I am not refining too much when I 
assert that the cordial seeming, which these delu- 
ded guests were received, treated, and parted with, 
were anything rather than lies of benevolence. 
I also believe that those who scruple not, even 
from well-intentioned kindness, to utter spontane- 
ous falsehoods, are not gifted with much judgment 
and real feeling, nor are they given to think deeply ; 
for the virtues are nearly related, and live in the 
greatest harmony with each other ; — consequent- 
ly, sincerity and benevolence must always agree, 
and not, as is often supposed, be at variance with 
each other. The truly benevolent feel, and culti- 
vate, such candid and kind views of those who as- 
sociate with them, that they need not fear to be 
sincere in their answers ; and if obliged to speak 
an unwelcome truth, or an unwelcome opinion, 
their well-principled kindness teaches them some 



LIES OP BENEVOLENCE. 75 

way of making what they utter palatable ; and be- 
nevolence is gratified without injury to sincerity. 

It is a common assertion, that society is so con- 
stituted, that it is impossible to tell the truth al- 
ways:-— but, if those who possess good sense would 
use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way of 
spontaneous truth as they do to justify themselves in 
the practice of falsehood, the difficulty would van- 
ish. Besides, truth is so uncommon an ingredient 
in society, that few are acquainted with it suffi- 
ciently to know whether it be admissible or not. A 
pious and highly-gifted man said, in my presence, 
to a friend whom I esteem and admire, and who 
had asserted that truth cannot always be told in 
society, "Has any one tried it? — We have all of 
us, in the course of our lives, seen dead birds of Pa- 
radise so often, that we should scarcely take the 
trouble of going to see one now. But the Marquis 
of Hastings has brought over a living bird of Para- 
dise ; and everyone is eagerly endeavouring to pro- 
cure a sight of that. I therefore prognosticate that, 
were spontaneous truth to be told in society, where 
it now is rarely, if ever, heard, real, living truth 
would be as much sought after, and admired, as 
the living bird of Paradise."* 



The following anecdote exhibits that Lie which 
some may call the lie of Benevolence, and others, 
the lie of fear; — that is, the dread of losing favour, 
by wounding a person's self-love. I myself deno- 
minate it the latter. 

* I fear that I have given the words weakly and imperfectly ; 
but I know I am correct, as to the sentiment and the illustra- 
tion. The speaker was Edward Irving, 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF &YIN8. 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 

A young lady, who valued herself on her bene- 
volence and good-breeding, and had as much re- 
spect for truth as those who live in the world usu- 
ally have, was invited by an authoress, whose favour 
she coveted, and by whose attention she was flat» 
tered, to come and hear her read a manuscript 
tragi-comedy. The other auditor was an old lady, 
who, to considerable personal ugliness, united 
strange grimaces, and convulsive twitchings of the 
face, chiefly the result of physical causes. 

The authoress read in so affected and dramatic 
a manner, that the young lady's boasted benevo* 
lence had no power to curb her propensity to laugh- 
ter ; which being perceived by the reader, she stop- 
ped in angry consternation, and desired to know 
whether she laughed at her, or her composition 
At first she was too much fluttered to make any re- 
ply ; — but as she dared not own the truth, and had 
no scruple against being guilty of deception, she 
cleverly resolved to excuse herself by a practical 
lie. She therefore trod on her friend's foot, elbowed 
her, and, by winks and signs, tried to make her be- 
lieve that it was the grimaces of her opposite neigh- 
bour, who was quietly knitting and twitching as 
usual, which had had such an effect on her risible 
faculties ; and the deceived authoress, smiling her- 
self when her young guest directed her eye to her 
unconscious vis-a-vis, resumed her reading with a 
lightened brow and increased energy. 

This added to the young lady's amusement; as 

she could now indulge her risibility occasionally at 

he authoress's expense, without exciting her sus- 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 77 

picions ; especially as the manuscript was some- 
times intended to excite smiles, if not laughter ; 
and the self-love of the writer led her to suppose 
that her hearer's mirth was the result of her comic 
powers. But the treacherous gratification of the 
auditor was soon at an end. The manuscript was 
meant to move tears as well as smiles ; but as the 
matter became more pathetic, the manner became 
more ludicrous ; and the youthful hearer could no 
more force a tear than she could restrain a laugh ; 
till the mortified authoress, irritated into forgetful- 
ness of all feeling and propriety, exclaimed, " In- 
deed, Mrs. , I must desire you to move your 

seat, and sit where Miss does not see you ; 

for you make such queer grimaces that you draw 
her attention and cause her to laugh when she 
should be listening to me." The erring but hu- 
mane girl was overwhelmed with dismay at the un- 
expected exposure ;, and when the poor infirm old 
lady replied, in a faultering tone, " Is she indeed 
laughing at me?" she could scarcely refrain from 
telling the truth, and assuring her that she was in- 
capable of such cruelty. " Yes ;" rejoined the 
authoress, in a paroxysm of wounded self-love, 
" She owned to me soon after she began, that you 
occasioned her ill-timed mirth ; and when I looked 
at you, I could hardly help smiling myself; but I 
am sure you could help making such faces, if you 
would." — " Child !" cried the old lady, while tears 
of wounded sensibility trickled down her pale 
cheeks, " and you, my unjust friend, I hope and 
trust that I forgive you both; but, if ever you 
should be paralytic yourselves, may you remember 
this evening, and learn to repent of having been 
provoked to laugh by the physical weakness of a 
7* 



78 ILLUSTRATIONS Or LYING. 

paisied old woman !" The indignant authoress was 
now penitent, subdued, and ashamed, — and earn- 
estly asked pardon for her unkindness ; but the 
young offender, whose acted lie had exposed her 
to seem guilty of a fault which she had not com- 
mitted, was in an agony to which expression was 
inadequate. But, to exculpate herself was impos' 
sible : and she could only give her wounded vic- 
tim tear for tear. 

To attend to a farther perusal of the manu- 
script was impossible. The old lady desired that 
her carriage should come round directly ; the au- 
thoress locked up her composition, that had been 
so ill received ; and the young lady, who had been 
proud of the acquaintance of each, became an ob- 
ject of suspicion and dislike both to the one and 
the other; since the former considered her to be oi 
a cruel and unfeeling nature, and the latter could 
not conceal from herself the mortifying truth, that 
her play must be wholly devoid of interest, as it 
had utterly failed either to rivet or attract her 
young auditor's attention. 

But, though this girl lost two valued acquaintan- 
ces by acting a lie, (a harmless white lie, as it i& 
called,) I fear she was not taught or amended by 
the circumstance ; but deplored her want of luck, 
rather than her want of integrity ; and, had her de- 
ception met with the success which she expected 
she would probably have boasted of her ingenious 
artifice to her acquaintance ; — nor can I help be- 
lieving that she goes on in the same way whenever 
she is tempted to do so, and values herself on the 
lies of selfish fear, which she dignifies by the 
name of lies of benevolence. 

It is curious to observe that the kindness which 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 79 

prompts to really erroneous conduct cannot con- 
tinue to bear even a remote connexion with real 
benevolence. The mistaken girl, in the anecdote 
related above, begins with what she calls a virtuous 
deception. She could not wound the feelings of 
the authoress by owning that she laughed at her 
mode of reading : she therefore accused herself of 
a much worse fault ; that of laughing at the person- 
al infirmities of a fellow-creature ; and then, find- 
ing that her artifice enabled her to indulge her 
sense of the ridiculous with impunity, she at length 
laughs treacherously and systematically, because 
she dares do so, and not involuntarily, as she did 
at first, at her unsuspecting friend. Thus such hol- 
low unprincipled benevolence as hers soon dege 
nerated into absolute malevolence. But, had this 
girl been a girl of principle and of real benevolence, 
she might have healed her friend's vanity at the 
same time that she wounded it, by saying, after she 
had owned that her mode of reading made her 
laugh, that she was now convinced of the truth of 
what she had often heard, namely, that authors 
rarely do justice to their own works, when they 
read them aloud themselves, however well they 
may read the works of others ; because they are 
naturally so nervous on the occasion, that they are 
laughably violent, because painfully agitated. 

This reply could not have offended her friend 
greatly if at all ; and it might have led her to mo- 
derate her outre manner of reading. She would in 
consequence have appeared to more advantage ; 
and the interests of real benevolence, namely, the 
doing good to a fellow-creature, would have been 
served, and she would not, by a vain attempt to 
save a friend's vanity from being hurt, have been 



80 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LUNG. 

the means of wounding the feelings of an afflicted 
woman; have incurred the charge of inhumanity, 
which she by no means deserved ; and have vain- 
ly, as well as grossly, sacrificed the interests of 
Truth. 



CHAPTER VI. 

LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 

I have now before me a very copious subject : 
and shall begin by that most common lie of con- 
venience, the order to servants, to say " Not at 
home ;" a custom which even some moralists de- 
fend, because they say that it is not lying, as it 
deceives no one. But this I deny ; — as I know it 
is often meant to deceive. I know that if the per- 
son, angry at being refused admittance, says, at the 
next meeting with the denied person, " I am sure 
you zvere at home such a day, when I called, but 
did not choose to see me" the answer is, " Oh 
dear, no ; — how can you say so ? I am sure I was 
not at home ; — for I am never denied to you ;" 
though the speaker. is conscious all the while that 
" not at home" was intended to deceive, as well as 
to deny. But, if it be true that " not at home" is 
not intended to deceive, and is a form used merely 
to exclude visiters with as little trouble as possible, 
I would ask whether it were not just as easy to say, 
" my master, or my mistress, is engaged ; and can 
see no one this morning." Why have recourse 
even to the appearance of falsehood, when truth 
would answer every purpose just as well ? 

But if " not at home" be understood amongst 



LIBS 07 CONVENIENCE. 81 

equals, merely as a legitimate excuse, it still is high- 
ly objectionable ; because it must have a most per- 
nicious effect on the minds of servants, who cannot 
be supposed parties to this implied compact 
amongst their superiors, and must therefore under- 
stand the order literally ; which is, " go, and lie 
for my convenience !" How then, I ask, in the 
name of justice and common sense, can I, after giv- 
ing such an order, resent any lie which servants 
may choose to tell me for their own convenience, 
pleasure, or interest ? 

Thoughtless and injudicious (I do not like to 
add) unprincipled persons, sometimes say to ser- 
vants, when they have denied their mistress, " Oh 
fie ! how can you tell me such a fib without blush- 
ing ? I am ashamed of you ! You know your 
lady is at home ; — well ;— I am really shocked at 
your having so much effrontery as to tell such a lie 
with so grave a face 1 But, give my compliments 
to your mistress, and tell her, I hope that she will 
see me the next time I call ;" — and all this uttered 
in a laughing manner, as if this moral degradation 
of the poor servant were an excellent joke ! But 
on these occasions, what can the effect of such jo- 
king be on the conscious liars ? It must either lead 
them to think as lightly of truth as their reprovers 
themselves, (since they seem more amused than 
shocked at the detected violation of it,) or they will 
turn away distressed in conscience, degraded in 
their own eyes for having obeyed their employer, 
and feeling a degree of virtuous indignation against 
those persons who have, by their immoral command 
been the means of their painful degradation ; — nay, 
their master and mistress will be for ever lowered 
in their servant's esteem ; they will feel that the 



82 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

teacher of a lie is brought down on a level with the 
utterer of it ; and the chances are, that, during the 
rest of their service, they will without scruple use 
against their employers the dexterity which they have 
taught them to use against others.^ 

* As I feel a great desire to lay before my readers the strong- 
est arguments possible, to prove the vicious tendency of even 
the most tolerated lie of convenience ; namely, the order to 
servants to say " Not at home ;" and as I wholly distrust my 
own powers of arguing with effect on this, or any other sub- 
ject, I give the following extracts from Dr. Chalmers's " Dis- 
courses on the Application of Christianity to the Commercial 
and Ordinary Affairs of Life ;" discourses which abundantly 
and eloquently prove the sinfulness of deceit in general, and 
the fearful responsibility incurred by all who depart, even in 
the most common occurrences, from that undeviating practice 
of truth which is every where enjoined on Christians in the 
pages of holy writ. But I shall, though reluctantly, confine 
myself in these extracts to what bears immediately on the 
subject before us. I must however state, in justice to myself, 
that my remarks on the same points were not only written, but 
printed and published, in a periodical work, before I knew 
that Dr. Chalmers had written the book in question. 

M You put a lie into the mouth of a dependant, and that for 
the purpose of protecting your time from such an encroach- 
ment as you would not feel to be convenient, or agreeable. 
Look to the little account that is made of a brother's and sis- 
ter's eternity. Behold the guilty task that is thus unmerci- 
fully laid upon one who is shortly to appear before the judg- 
ment-seat of Christ. Think of the entanglement that is thus 
made to beset the path of a creature who is unperishable. 
That, at the shrine of Mammon such a bloody sacrifice should 
be rendered, by some of his unrelenting votaries, is not to be 
wondered at ; but, that the shrine of elegance and fashion 
should be bathed in blood ; — that soft and sentimental ladyship 
should put forth her hand to such an enormity ; — that she who 
can sigh so gently, and shed her graceful tear over the suffer- 
ings of others, should thus be accessary to the second and 
more awful death of her own domestics ; — that one, who looks 
the mildest and loveliest of human beings, should exact obe- 
dience to a mandate which carries wrath, and tribulation, and 
anguish in its train. Oh ! how it should confirm every Chris* 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE* 83 

Buramongst the most frequent lies of conveni- 
ence are those which are told relative to engage- 
ments, which they who make them are averse to 
keep. " Headachs, bad colds, unexpected visiters 
from the country," all these, in their turn, are used 

tian in his defiance of the authority of fashion, and lead him 
to spurn at all its folly and all its worthlessness. And it is quite 
in vain to say that the servant, whom you thus employ as the 
deputy of your falsehood, can possibly execute the commission 
without the conscience being at all tainted or defiled by it ; 
that a simple cottage maid can so sophisticate the matter, as, 
without any violence to her original principles, to utter the 
language of what she assuredly knows to be a downright lie ; 
— that she, humble and untutored soul ! can sustain no injury, 
when thus made to tamper with the plain English of these 
re-alms ; — that she can at all satisfy herself how, by the pre- 
scribed utterance of " not at home," she is not pronouncing 
such words as are substantially untrue, bat merely using them 
in another and perfectly understood meaning ; — and which, 
according to their modern translation, denote that the person, 
of whom she is thus speaking, is securely lurking in one of the 
most secure and intimate of its receptacles. 

" You may try to darken this piece of casuistry as you will, 
and work up your minds into the peaceable conviction that it 
is all right, and as it should be. But, be very certain that, 
where the moral sense of your domestic is not already over- 
thrown, there is, at least, one bosom within which you have 
raised a war of doubts and difficulties, and where, if the vic- 
tory be on your side, it will be on the side of him who is the 
great enemy of righteousness. 

" There is, at least, one person, along the line of this con- 
veyance of deceit, who condemneth herself in that which she 
alloweth ; who, in the language of Paul, esteeming the prac- 
tice to be unclean, to her will it be unclean ; who will per- 
form her task with the offence of her own conscience, and to 
whom, therefore, it will indeed be evil ; who cannot render 
obedience in this matter to her earthly superior, but by an act 
in which she does not stand clear, and unconscious of guilt 
before God ; and with whom, therefore, the sad consequence 
of what we can call nothing else than a barbarous combina- 
tion against the principles and prospects of the lower orders, 
is — that, as she has not cleaved fully unto the Lord, and has 



84 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

as lies of convenience, and gratify indolence, or ca- 
price, at the expense of integrity. 

How often have I pitied the wives and daughters 
of professional men, for the number of lies which 
they are obliged to tell, in the course of the year f 
" Dr. is very sorry ; but he w r as sent for to a 



not kept by the service of the one Master, and has not for- 
saken all but His bidding, she cannot be the disciple of Christ. 
" And let us just ask a master or a mistress, who can thus 
make free with the moral principle of their servants in one 
instance, how they can look for pure or correct principle from 
them in other instances ? What right have they to complain 
of unfaithfulness against themselves, who have deliberately 
seduced another into a habit of unfaithfulness against God ? 
Are they so utterly unskilled in the mysteries of our nature, 
as not to perceive that the servant whom you have taught to 
lie, has uotten such rudiments of education at your hand, as 
that, without any further help, he can now teach himself to 
purloin r — and yet nothing more frequent than loud and an- 
gry complainings against treachery of servants ; as if, in the 
general wreck of their other principles, a principle of conside- 
ration for the good and interest of their employer, and who 
has at the same time been their seducer, was to survive in all 
its power and sensibility. It is just such a retribution as was 
to be looked for. It is a recoil, upon their own heads, of the 
mischief which they themselves have originated. It is the 
temporal part of the punishment which they have to bear for 
the sin of our text ; but not the whole of it : far better for 
them both that both person and property were cast into the 
sea, than that they should stand the reckoning of that day, 
when called to give an account of the souls that they have 
murdered, and the blood of so mighty a destruction is required 
at their hands." 



These remarks vat first made part of a chapter on the lie of 
convenience, but thinking them not suited to that period of 
my work, I took them out again, and not being able to intro- 
duce them in any subsequent chapter, because they treat of 
one particular lie, and not of lying in general, I have been ob- 
liged to content myself with putting them in * note. 



LIES OIT CONVENIENCE. 85 

patient just as he was coming with me to your 
house."" " Papa's compliments, and lie is very 
sorry ; but he was forced to attend a commission 
of bankruptcy ; but will certainly come, if he can, 
by-and-by," when the chances are, that the physi- 
cian is enjoying himself over his book and his fire, 
and the lawyer also, congratulating themselves on 
having escaped that terrible bore, a party, at the 
expense of teaching their wife, or daughter, or son, 
to tell what they call a white lie! But, I would 
ask those fathers, and those mothers, who make 
their children the bearers of similar excuses, whe- 
ther, after giving them such commissions, they 
could conscientiously resent any breach of veracity, 
or breach of confidence, or deception, committed 
by their children in matters of more importance. 
" Ce ripest que le premier pas qui coute" says the 
proverb ; and I believe that habitual, permitted, and 
encouraged lying, in little and seemingly unimpor- 
tant things, leads to want of truth and principle in 
great and serious matters ; for when the barrier, or 
restrictive principle, is once thrown down, no one 
can say where a stop will be put to the inroads and 
the destruction. 

I forgot, in the first edition of my work, to no- 
tice one falsehood which is only too often uttered 
by young women in a ball-room ; but I f/hall now 
mention it with due reprehension, though I scarce- 
ly know under what head to class it. I think, how- 
ever that it may be named without impropriety, 
roie of the Lies of Convenience. 

But, I cannot do better than give an extract on 

this subject, from a letter addressed to me by a 

friend, on reading this book, in which she has had 

the kindness to praise, and the still greater kindness 

8 



Ob ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

to admonish' me.* She says, as follows : — " One 
falsehood that is very often uttered by the lips of 
youth, I trust not without a blush, you have passed 
unnoticed ; and, as I always considered it no venial 
one, I will take the present opportunity of pointing 
out its impropriety. A young lady, when asked 
by a gentleman to dance, whom she does not ap- 
prove, will, without hesitation, say, though unpro- 
vided with any other partner, " If I dance I am 
engaged ;" this positive untruth is calculated to 
wound the feelings of the person to whom it is ad- 
dressed, for it generally happens that such person 
discovers he has been deceived, as well as rejected. 
It is very seldom that young men, to whom it would 
really be improper that a lady should give her 
hand for the short time occupied in one or two 
dances, are admitted into our public places ; but, 
in such a case, could not a reference be made by 
her to any friends who are present ; pride and va- 
nity too often prompt the refusal, and, because the 
offered partner has not sufficiently sacrificed to the 
graces, is little versed ; in the poetry of motion,' 
or derives no consequence from the possession of 
rank, or riches, he is treated with what he must feel 
to be contempt. True politeness, which has its 
seat in the heart, would scorn thus to wound an- 
other, and the real votaries of sincerity would ne- 
ver so violate its rules to escape a temporary mor- 
tification." 

* Vide a (printed) letter addressed " to Mrs. Opie, with ob- 
servations on her recent publication, ; Illustrations of Lying" 
in all its branches.' " The authoress is Susan Reeve, wife of 
Dr. Reeve, M. D., and daughter of E. Bonhote of Bungay, 
authoress of many interesting publications. 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 87 



I shall only add, that I have entire unity of sen- 
timent with the foregoing extract. 

Here I beg leave to insert a short Tale, illustra- 
tive of Lies of Convenience. 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 

There are a great many match-makers in the 
world ; beings who dare to take on themselves the 
fearful responsibility of bringing two persons toge- 
ther into that solemn union which only death or 
guilt can dissolve ; and thus make themselves an- 
swerable for the possible misery of two of their fel- 
low-creatures. 

One of these busy match-makers, a gentleman 
named Byrome, was very desirous that Henry 
Sandford, a relation of his, should become a mar- 
ried man ; and he called one morning to inform 
him that he had at length met with a young lady 
who would, he flattered himself, suit him in all re- 
spects as a wife. Henry Sandford was not a man 
of many words; nor had he a high opinion of By- 
rome's judgment. He therefore only said, in re- 
ply, that he was willing to accompany his relation 
to the lady's house, where, on Byrome's invitation, 
he found that he was expected to drink tea. 

The young lady in question, whom I shall call 

Lydia L , lived with her widowed aunt, who 

had brought her and her sisters up, and supplied 
to them the place of parents, lost in their infancy. 
She had bestowed on them an expensive and showy 
education; had, both by precept and example, 
given every worldly polish to their manners ; and 



88 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIX«. 

had taught them to set oft their beauty by tasteful 
and fashionable dress ; — that is, she had done for 
them all that she thought was necessary to be 
done ; and she, as well as Byrome, believed that 
they possessed every requisite to make the marriage 
state happy. 

But Henry Sandford was not so easy to please. 
He valued personal beauty and external accom- 
plishments far below christian graces and moral 
virtues ; and was resolved never to unite himself 
to a woman whose conduct was not entirely under 
the guidance of a strict religious principle. 

Lydia L was not in the room when Sand- 
ford arrived, but lie very soon had cause to doubt 
the moral integrity of her aunt and sisters ; for, 
on Byrome's saying, "I hope you are not to have 
any company but ourselves to-day," the aunt re- 
plied, " Oh no ; we put off some company that we 
expected, because we thought you would like to 
be alone ;" and one of the sisters added, " Yes ; I 

wrote to the disagreeable D s, informing them 

that my aunt was too unwell, with one of her bad 
headachs, to see company;" "and I," said the 

other, " called on the G s, and said that we 

wished them to come another day, because the 
beaux whom they liked best to meet were en- 
gaged." "Admirable!" cried Byrome, " let wo- 
men alone for excuses !" — while Sandford looked 
grave, and wondered how any one could think 
admirable what to him appeared so reprehensible. 
" However," thought he, " Lydia had no share in 
this treachery and white lying, but may dislike 
them, as I do." Soon after she made her appear- 
ance, attired for conquest ; and so radiant did she 
seem in her youthful loveliness and grace, that 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 89 

Sandford earnestly hoped she had better principles 
than her sisters. 

Time fled on rapid wings ; and Byrome and the 
two elder sisters frequently congratulated each 

other that " the disagreeable D s and tiresome 

G s" had not been allowed to come and de- 
stroy, as they would have done, the pleasure of the 
afternoon. But Lydia did not join in this conver- 
sation ; and Sandford was glad of it. The hours 
passed in alternate music and conversation, and 
also in looking over some beautiful drawings of 
Lydia's ; but the evening was to conclude with a 
French game, a jeu-de-societe which Sandford was 
unacquainted with, and which would give Lydia an 
opportunity of telling a story gracefully. 

The L s lived in a pleasant village near the 

town where Sandford and Byrome resided ; and a 
long avenue of fine trees led to their door ; when, 
just as the aunt was pointing out their beauty to 
Sandford, she exclaimed, " Oh dear, girls, what 
shall we do ? there is Mrs. Carthew now entering 
the avenue ! Not at home, John ! not at home !" 
she eagerly vociferated. " My dear aunt, that will 
not do for her," cried the eldest sister ; " for she will 
ask for us all in turn, and inquire where we are, 
that she may go after us." " True," said the other, 
" and if we admit her, she is so severe and metho- 
distical, that she will spoil all our enjoyment." 
" However, in she must come," observed the aunt; 
" for as she is an old friend, I should not like to 
affront her." 

Sandford was just going to say, " If she be an 
old friend, admit her, by all means;" when on 
looking at Lydia, who had been silent all this time, 
q.nd was, he flattered himself, of his way of think- 



90 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIBT*. 

ing, he saw her put her finger archly to her nose, 
and heard her exclaim, " I have it ! there, there ; go 
all of you into the next room, and close the door !" 
She then bounded gracefully down the avenue, 
while Sandford, with a degree of pain which he 
could have scarcely thought possible, heard one of 
the sisters say to Byrome, " Ah ! Lydia is to be 
trusted ; she tells a white lie with such an innocent 
look, that no one can suspect her." " What a va- 
luable accomplishment," thought Sandford, " in a 
woman! what a recommendation in a wife!" and 
he really dreaded the fair deceiver's return. 

She came back, " nothing doubting," and, smi- 
ling with great self-complacency, said, " It was very 
fortunate that it was I who met her; for I have 
more presence of mind than you, my dear sisters. 

The good soul had seen the I) s ; and hearing 

my aunt was ill, came to inquire concerning her. 
She was even coming on to the house, as she saw 
no reason why she should not ; and I, for a mo- 
ment, was at a loss how to keep her away, when I 
luckily recollected her great dread of infection, and 
told her that, as the typhus fever was in the village, 
I feared it was only too possible that my poor aunt 
had caught it!" — "Capital!" cried the aunt and 
Byrome ! " Really, Lydia, that was even out-doing 
yourself," cried her eldest sister. " Poor Car- 
thewy ! I should not wonder, if she came at all 
near the house, that she went home, and took to 
her bed from alarm 1" 

Even Byrome was shocked at this unfeeling 
speech ; and could not help observing, that it w T ould 
be hard indeed if such was the result, to a good old 
friend, of an affectionate inquiry. " True," re- 
plied Lydia, "and I hope and trust she will not 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 91 

really suffer ; but, though very good, she is very 
troublesome ; and could we but keep up the hum 
for a day or two, it would be such a comfort to us ! 
as she conies very often, and now cannot endure 
cards, or any music, but hymri-singiiig." 

" Then I am glad she was not admitted," said 
Byrome, who saw with pain, by Sandford's folded 
arms and grave countenance, that a change in his 
feelings towards Lydia had taken place. Nor was 
he deceived : — Sandford was indeed gazing intent- 
ly, but not as before, with almost overpowering ad- 
miration, on the consciously blushing object of it. 
No; he was likening her, as he gazed, to the beau- 
tiful apples that are said to grow on the shores of 
the Dead Sea, which tempt the traveller to pluck 
and eat, but are filled only with dust and bitter ashes. 

" But we are losing time," said Lydia ; " let us 
begin our French game !" Sandford coldly bow- 
ed assent ; but he knew not what she said ; he was 
so inattentive, that he had to forfeit continually ; 
— he spoke not ; — he smiled not ; — except with a 
sort of sarcastic expression ; and Lydia felt con- 
scious that she had lost him, though she knew not 
why ; for her moral sense was too dull for her to 
conceive the effect which her falsehood, and want 
of feeling, towards an old and pious friend, had 
produced on him. This consciousness was a painful 
one,as Sandford was handsome, sensible, and rich; 
therefore, he was what match-seeking girls (odious 
vulgarity !) call a good catch. Besides, Byrome had 
told her that she might depend on making a con- 
quest of his relation, Henry Sandford. The even- 
ing, therefore, which began so brightly, ended in 
pain and mortification, both to Sandford and Lydia. 
The former was impatient to depart as soon as 



92 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

supper was over, and the latter, piqued, disap- 
pointed, and almost dejected, did not join her sis- 
ters in soliciting him to stay. 

" Well," said Byrome, as soon as they left the 
house, " how do you like the beautiful and accom- 
plished Lydia ?" — " She is beautiful and accom- 
plished ; but that is all*" — -"Nay, I am sure you 
seemed to admire her exceedingly, till just now, 
and paid her more animated attention than I 
ever saw you pay any woman before." — " True ; 
but I soon found that she was as hollow-hearted as 
she is fair." " Oh ! I suppose you mean the de- 
ception which she practised on the old lady. Well ; 
where was the great harm of that ? she only told 
a white lie ; and nobody, that is not a puritan, 
scruples to do that, you know." 

" I am no puritan, as you term it ; yet I scruple 
it ; but, if I were to be betrayed into such mean- 
ness, (and no one perhaps can be always on his 
guard.) I should blush to have it known ; but this 
girl seemed to glory in her shame, and to be proud of 
the disgraceful readiness with which she uttered her 
falsehood." "I must own that I was surprised she 
did not express some regret at being forced to do 
what she did, in order to prevent our pleasure from 
being spoiled." " Why should she ? Like your- 
self she saw no harm in a zchite lie ; but, mark me, 
Byrome, the woman whom I marry shall not think 
there is such a thing as a white lie — she shall think 
all lies black ; because the intention of all lies is to 
deceive; and, from the highest authority, we are 
forbidden to deceive one another. I assure you, 
that if I were married to Lydia, I should distrust 
her expressions of love towards me ; — I should 
suspect that she married my fortune, not me ; and 



PROJECTS DEFEATED, 93 

that, whenever strong temptation offered, she would 
deceive me as readily as, for a very slight one in- 
deed, she deceived that kind friend who came on 
an errand of love, and was sent away alarmed, and 
anxious, by this young hypocrite's unblushing false- 
hood ! — Trust me, Byrome, that my wife shall be 
a strict moralist." "What! a moral philosopher ?" 
" No ; a far better thing. Qhe shall be a hum- 
ble relying christian- — thence she will be capable 
of speaking the truth, even to her own condemna- 
tion ; — and, on all occasions, her fear of man will 
be wholly subservient to her fear of her Creator." 
" And, pray, how can you ever be able to assure 
yourself that any girl is this paragon ?" " Surely, if 
what we call chance could so easily exhibit to me 

Lydia in all the ugliness of her falsehood, it 

may equally, one day or other, disclose to me some 
other girl in all the beauty of her truth. Till then, 
I hope, I shall have resolution enough to remain a 
bachelor." " Then," replied Byrome, shaking his 
head, " I must bid you good night, an old bachelor 
in prospect and in perpetuity !" And as he return- 
ed his farewell, Sandford sighed to think that his 
prophecy was only too likely to be fulfilled ; since 
his observation had convinced him that a strict ad- 
herence to truth, on little as well as on great oc- 
casions, is, though one of the most important, the 
rarest of all virtues." 



CHAPTER VII. 

ON LIES OF INTEREST. 

These lies are very various, and are more ex- 
cusable, and less offensive, than many others. 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 94 

The pale ragged beggar, who, to add to the 
effect of his or her ill looks, tells of the large family 
which does not exist, has a strong motive to de- 
ceive in the penury which does ; — and one cannoc 
consider as a very abandoned liar, the tradesman, 
who tells you he cannot afford to come down to the 
price which you offer, because he gave almost as 
much for the goods himself. It is not from persona 
like these that we meet with the most disgusting 
marks of interested falsehood. It is when habitual 
and petty lying profanes the lips of those whom in- 
dependence preserves from any stong temptation 
to violate truth, and whom religion and education 
might have taught to value it. 

The following story will illustrate the Lies of In- 
terest, 



THE SKREEN, or " NOT AT HOME." 

The widow 7 of Governor Atheling returned from 
the East Indies, old, rich, and childless ; and as 
she had none but very distant relations, her affec- 
tions naturally turned towards the earliest friends 
of her youth ; one of whom she found still living, 
and residing in a large country-town. 

She therefore hired a house and grounds adja- 
cent, in a village very near to that lady's abode, 
and became not only her frequent but welcome 
guest. This old friend was a widow in narrow cir- 
cumstances, with four daughters slenderly provided 
for ; and she justly concluded that, if she and her \ 
family could endear themselves to their opulent 
guest, they should in all probability inherit some of 



THE SKREEtf 95 

her property. In the meanwhile, as she never vi- 
sited them without bringing with her, in great 
abundance, whatever was wanted for the table, 
and might therefore be said to contribute to their 
maintenance, without seeming to intend to do so, 
they took incessant pains to conciliate her more 
and more every day, by flatteries which she did not 
see through, and attentions which she deeply felt. 
Still, the Livingstones were not in spirit united to 
their amiable guest. The sorrows of her heart 
had led her, by slow degrees, to seek refuge in a 
religious course of life ; and, spite of her proneness 
to self-deception, she could not conceal from her- 
self that, on this most important subject, the Li- 
vingstones had never thought seriously, and were, 
as yet, entirely women of the world. But still her 
heart longed to be attached to something ; and as 
her starved affections craved some daily food, she 
suffered herself to love this plausible, amusing, 
agreeable, and seemingly affectionate family ; and 
she every day lived in hope, that, by her precepts 
and example, she should ultimately tear them from 
that " world they loved too well." Sweet and 
precious to their own souls, are the illusions of the 
good ; and the deceived East-Indian was happy, 
because she did not understand the true nature of 
the Livingstones. 

On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what 
she fancied they were, or might become, that she 
took very little notice of a shame-faced, awkward, 
retiring, silent girl, the only (child of the dearest 
friend that her childhood and her youth had known, 
— and who had been purposely introduced to her 
only as Fanny Barnwell. For the Livingstones 
were too selfish, and too prudent, to let their rich 






96 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

friend know that this poor girl was the orphan of 
Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, therefore, the 
most important part of the truth, they only inform- 
ed her that Fanny Barnwell was an orphan, who 
w r as glad to live amongst her mends, that she might 
make her small income sufficient for her wants; 
taking care not to add that she was mistaken in 
supposing that Fanny Beaumont, whose long si- 
lence and subsequent death she had bitterly de 
plored, had died childless ; for that she had mar- 
ried a second husband, by whom she had the poor 
orphan in question, and had lived many years in 
sorrow and obscurity, the result of this imprudent 
marriage ; resolving, however, in order to avoid ac- 
cidents, that Fanny's visit should not be of long 
duration. In the mean while, they confided in the 
security afforded them by what may be called their 
passive lie of interest. But, in order to make 
u assurance doubly sure," they had also recourse 
to the active lie or interest ; and, in order to 
frighten Fanny from ever daring to inform their vi- 
siter that she was the child of Fanny Beaumont, 
they assured her that that lady was so enraged 
against her poor mother, for having married her un- 
worthy father, that no one dared to mention her 
name to her; because it never failed to draw from 
her the most violent abuse of her once dearest 
friend. " And you know, Fanny," they took care 
to add, u that you could not bear to hear your poor 
mother abused." " No ; that I could not, indeed," 
was the w T eeping girl's answer ; the Livingstones 
therefore felt safe and satisfied. However, it still 
might not be amiss to make the old lady dislike 
Fanny, if they could ; and they contrived to render 
the poor girl's virtue the means of doing her injury, 



THE SKREEtf. 97 

Fanny's mother could not bequeath much mo- 
ney to her child ; but she had endeavoured to en- 
rich her with principles and piety. Above all, she 
had impressed her with the strictest regard for 
truth ; — and the Livingstones artfully contrived to 
make her integrity the means of displeasing their 
East-Indian friend. 

This good old lady's chief failing was believing 
implicitly whatever was said in her commendation : 
not that she loved flattery, but that she liked to be- 
lieve she had conciliated good zoiM; and being sin- 
cere herself, she never thought of distrusting the 
sincerity of others. 

Nor was she ax all vain of her once fine person, 
and finer face, or improperly fond of dress. Still, 
from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she 
allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they liked ; 
and, as they chose to make her wear fashionable 
and young looking attire, in which they declared 
that she looked " so handsome ! and so well !" she 
believed they were the best judges of what was 
proper for her, and always replied, " Well, dear 
friends, it is entirely a matter of indifference to me ; 
so dress me as you please ;" while the Living- 
stones, not believing that it was a matter of indiffer- 
ence, used to laugh, as soon as she was gone, at 
her obvious credulity. 

But this ungenerous and treacherous conduct 
excited such strong indignation in the usually gen- 
tle Fanny, that she could not help expressing her 
sentiments concerning it; and by that means made 
them the more eager to betray her into offending 
their unsuspicious friend. They therefore asked 
Fanny, in her presence, one day. whether their dear 
guest did not dres» most becomingly ? 
9 



98 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awk- 
ward contortions, now looking down, and then look- 
ing up ; — unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the truth. 
" Why do you not reply, Fanny ?" said the artful 
questioner. " Is ^he not well dressed ?" — " Not 
in my opinion," faltered out the distressed girl. 
" And, pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old lady, 
" what part of my dress do you disapprove ?" Af- 
ter a pause, Fanny took courage to reply, " all of 
it, madam." "Why? do you think it too young 
for me !" u I do." " A plain-spoken young per- 
son that?" she observed, in a tone of pique ; while 
the Livingstones exclaimed, " impertinent ! ridicu- 
lous !" and Fanny was glad to leave the room, 
feeling excessive pain at having been forced to 
wound the feelings of one whom she wished to be 
permitted to love, because she had once been her 
mother's dearest friend. After this scene, the 
Livingstones, partly from the love of mischief, and 
partly from the love of fun, used to put similar 
questions to Fanny, in the old lady's presence, till, 
at last, displeased and indignant at her bluntness 
and ill-breeding, she scarcely noticed or spoke to 
her. In the mean while, Cecilia Livingstone be- 
came an object of increasing interest to her ; for 
she had a lover to whom she was greatly attached, 
but who would not be in a situation to marry for 
many years. 

This young man was frequently at the house, 
and was as polite and attentive to the old lady, 
when she was present, as the rest of the family ; 
but, like them, he was ever ready to indulge in a 
laugh at her credulous simplicity, and especially at 
her continually expressing her belief, as well as her 
hopes, that they were all beginning to think less ot 



THE SKREEN 99 

the present world, and more of the next ; and as 
Alfred Lawrie, (Cecilia's lover,) as well as the 
Livingstones, possessed no inconsiderable power of 
mimickry, they exercised them with great effect on 
the manner and tones of her whom they called the 
over-dressed saint, unrestrained, alas ! by the con- 
sciousness that she was their present, and would, 
as they expected, be their future, benefactress. 

That confiding and unsuspecting being was, 
meanwhile, considering, that though her health was 
injured by a long residence in a warm climate, she 
might still live many years; and that, as Cecilia 
might not therefore possess the fortune which she 
had bequeathed to her till " youth and genial years 
were flown," it would be better to give it to her 
during her life-time. " I will do so," she said to 
herself, (tears rushing into her eyes as she thought 
of the happiness which she was going to impart,) 
" and then the young people can marry directly !" 

She took this resolution one day when the Living- 
stones believed that she had left her home on a 
visit. Consequently, having no expectation of 
seeing her for some time, they had taken advantage 
of her long vainly-expected absence to make some 
engagements which they knew she would have ex- 
cessively disapproved. But though, as yet, they 
knew it not, the old lady had been forced to put 
off her visit ; a circumstance which she did not at 
all regret, as it enabled her to go sooner on her 
benevolent errand. 

The engagement of the Livingstones for that 
day was a rehearsal of a private play at their house, 
which they were afterwards, and during their saintly 
friend's absence, to perform at the house of a friend ; 
and a large room, called the library, in which there 



100 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

was a wide, commodious skreen, was selected as 
the scene of action. 

Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and other 
theatricals as much as their old friend herself, was 
to have no part in the performance ; but, as they 
were disappointed of their prompter that evening, 
she was, though with great difficulty, persuaded to 
perform the office, for that -night only. 

It was to be a dress rehearsal ; and the parties 
were in the midst of adorning themselves, when, to 
their great consternation, they saw their supposed 
distant friend coming up the street, and evidently 
intending them a visit. What was to be done ? 
To admit her was impossible. They therefore call- 
ed up a new servant, who only came to them the 
day before, and who did not know the worldly con- 
sequence of their unwelcome guest ; and Cecilia 
said to her, " you see that old lady yonder ; when 
she knocks, be sure you say that we are not at home ; 
and you had better add, that we shall not be home 
till bed-time ;" thus adding the lie of convenience 
to other deceptions. Accordingly, when she knock- 
ed at the door, the girl spoke as she was desired 
to do, or rather she improved upon it ; for she said 
that " her ladies had been out all day, and would 
not return till two o'clock in the morning." " In- 
deed ! that is unfortunate :" said their disappoint- 
ed visiter, stopping to deliberate whether she should 
not leave a note of agreeable surprise for Cecilia ; 
but the girl, who held the door in her hand, seem- 
ed so impatient to get rid of her, that she resolved 
not to write, and then turned away. 

The girl was re all}' in haste to return to the 
kitchen ; for she was gossiping with an old fellow- 
servant, She therefore neglected to go back to her 



THE SKREEN. 101 

anxious employers ; but Cecilia ran down the back 
stairs, to interrogate her, exclaiming, "Well ; what 
did she say ? I hope she did not suspect that we 
were at home. 11 " No, to be sure not, Miss ; — 
how should she ? — For I said even more than you 
told me to say, 11 repeating her additions ; being 
eager to prove her claim to the confidence of her 
new mistress. " But are you sure that she is real- 
ly gone from the door ?" " To be sure, Miss. 11 — 
" Still, I wish you could go and see ; because we 
have not seen her pass the window, though we 
heard the door shut. 11 " Dear me, Miss, how 
should you ? for I looked out after her, and I saw 
her go down the street under the windows, and turn 
.... yes, — I am sure that I saw her turn into a 
shop. However, I will go and look, if you desire 
it." She did so ; and certainly saw nothing of the 
dreaded guest. Therefore, her young ladies finish- 
ed their preparations, devoid of fear. But the 
truth was, that the girl, little aware of the impor- 
tance of this unwelcomed lady, and concluding she 
could not be a, friend, but merely some troublesome 
nobody, showed her contempt and her anger at be- 
ing detained so long, by throwing to the street-door 
with such violence, that it did not really close ; and 
the old lady, who had ordered her carriage to come 
for her at a certain hour, and was determined, on 
second thoughts, to sit down and wait for it, was 
able, unheard, to push open the door, and to enter 
the library unperceived ; — for the girl lied to those 
who bade her lie, when she said she saw her walk 
away. 

In that room Mrs. Atherling found a sofa ; and 
though she wondered at seeing a large skreen open- 
ed before it, she seated herself on it, and, being fa- 
9* 



102 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

tigued with her walk, soon fell asleep. But her 
slumber was broken very unpleasantly ; for she 
heard, as she awoke, the following dialogue, on the 
entrance of Cecilia and her lover, accompanied by 
Fanny. " Well — I am so glad we got rid of Mrs. 
Atherling so " cried Cecilia. " That new 

girl seems apt. Some servants deny one so as to 
show one is at home." " I should like them the 
better for it," said Fanny. " I hate to see any one 
ready at telling a falsehood." " Poor little con- 
scientious dear !" said the lover, mimicking her, 
" one would think the dressed-up saint had made 
you as methodistical as herself." "What, I "sup- 
pose, Miss Fanny, you would have had us let the 
old quiz in." — "To be sure I would; and I won- 
der you could be denied to so kind a friend. 
Poor dear Mrs. Atherling ! how hurt she would be, 
if she knew you were at home !" — " Poor dear, 
indeed ! Do not be so affected, Fanny. How 
should you care for Mrs. Atherling, when you 
know that she dislikes you !" — " Dislikes me ! Oh 
yes; I fear she does !" — "I am sure she does," 
replied Cecilia ; " for you are downright rude to 
her. Did you not say, only the day before yes- 
terday,, when she said, There, Miss Barnwell, I 
hope I have at last gotten a cap which you like- 
No ; I am sorry to say you have not ?" — " To be 
sure I did ; — I could not tell a falsehood, even to 
please Mrs. Atherling, though she was my own 
dear mother's dearest friend." — " Your mother's 
friend, Fanny ? I never heard that before ?" said 
the lover. " Did you not know that, Alfred !" said 
Cecilia, eagerly adding, " but Mrs. Atherling does 
not know it ;" giving a meaning look, as if to say, 
" and do not you tell her." — " Would she did 



THE SKREEN. 103 

know it !" said Fanny mournfully, " for, though I 
dare not tell her so, lest she should abuse my poor 
mother, as you say she would, Cecilia, because 
she was so angry at her marriage with my mis- 
guided father, still, I think she would look kindly 
on her once dear friend's orphan child, and like 
me, in spite of my honesty."—" No, no, silly girl ; 
honesty is usually its own reward. Alfred, what 
do you think ? Our old fiend, who is not very 
penetrating, said one day to her, I suppose you 
think my caps too young for me ; and that true 
young person replied, Yes, madam, I do." — "And 
would do so again, Cecilia ; — and it was far more 
friendly and kind to say so than flatter her on her 
dress, as you do, and then laugh at it when her 
back is turned. I hate to hear any one mimicked 
and laughed at; and more especially my mamma's 
old friend." — " There, there, child ! your sentimen- 
tality makes me sick. But come ; let us begin." 
"Yes," cried Alfred, " let us rehearse a little,, be- * 
fore the rest of the party come. I should like to 
hear Mrs. Atherling's exclamations, if she knew 
what we were doing. She would say thus :".... 
Here he gave a most accurate representation of 
the poor old lady's voice and manner, and her fan- 
cied abuse of private theatricals, while Cecilia cri- 
ed, "bravo ! bravo !" and Fanny, "shame ! shame !" 
till the other Livingstones, and the rest of the com- 
pany, who now entered, drowned her cry in their 
loud applauses and louder laughter. 

The old lady, whom surprise, anger, and wound- 
ed sensibility, had hitherto kept silent and still in 
her involuntary hiding-place, now rose up, and, 
mounting on the sofa, looked over the top of the 



104 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

skreen, full of reproachful meaning, on the con 
scious offenders ! 

What a moment, to them, of overwhelming sur- 
prise and consternation ! The cheeks, flushed with 
malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, became 
covered with a deeper blush of detected treachery, 
or pale with fear of its consequences ; — and the 
eyes, so lately beaming with ungenerous, injurious 
satisfaction, were now cast, with painful shame, up- 
on the ground, unable to meet the justly indignant 
glance of her, whose kindness they had repaid with 
such palpable and base ingratitude ! " An admi- 
rable likeness indeed, Alfred Lawrie," said their 
undeceived dupe, breaking her perturbed silence, 
and coming down from her elevation ; " but it will 
cost you more than you are at present aw r are of. 
But who art thou?" she added, addressing Fanny, 
(who, though it might have been a moment of tri- 
umph to her, felt and looked as if she had been a 
sharer in the guilt,) " Who art thou, my honourable, 
kind girl? And who was your mother?" "Your 
Fanny Beaumont," replied the quick-feeling or- 
phan, bursting into tears. u Fanny Beaumont's 
child! and it was concealed from me!" said she, 
folding the weeping girl to her heart. " But it was 
all of a piece ; all treachery and insincerity, from 
the beginning to the end. However, I am unde- 
ceived before it was too late." She then disclosed 
to the detected family her generous motive for the 
unexpected visit ; and declared her thankfulness for 
what had taken place, as far as she was herself 
concerned ; though she could not but deplore, as a 
christian, the discovered turpitude of those whom 
she had fondly loved. 



THE SKREEN. 105 

"I have now," she continued, " to make amends 
to one whom I have hitherto not treated kindly ; 
but I have at length been enabled to discover an 

undeserved friend, amidst undeserved foes 

My dear child," added she, parting Fanny's dark 
ringlets, and gazing fearfully in her face, " I must 
have been blind, as well as blinded, not to see your 
likeness to your dear mother. Will you live with 
me, Fanny, and be unto me as a daughter f 
11 Oh, most gladly !" was the eager and agitated 
reply. " You artful creature !" exclaimed Cecilia, 
pale with rage and mortification, c; you knew very 
well that she was behind the skreen." u I know 
that she could not know it," replied the old lady ; 
w and you, Miss Livingstone, assert what you do 
not yourself believe. But come, Fanny, let us go 
and meet my carriage ; for, no doubt your presence 
here is now as unwelcome as mine." But Fanny 
lingered, as if reluctant to depart. She could not 
bear to leave the Livingstones in anger. They had 
been kind to her ; and she would fain have parted 
with them affectionately; but they all preserved a 
sullen indignant silence, and scornfully repelled her 
advances. " You see that you must not tarry here, 
my good girl," observed the old lady, smiling, 
" so let us depart." They did so ; leaving the 
Livingstones and the lover, not deploring their fault, 
but lamenting their detection ; lamenting also the 
hour when they added the lies of convenience to 
their other deceptions, and had thereby enabled 
their unsuspecting dupe to detect those falsehoods, 
the result of their avaricious fears, which may be 
justly entitled the lies of interest. 



106 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

LIES OF FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 

Lies of first-rate malignity come next to be 
considered : and I think that I am right in asserting 
that such lies, — lies intended -wilfully to destroy the 
reputation of men and women, to injure their cha- 
racters in public or private estimation, and for ever 
cloud over their prospects in life, — are less frequent 
than falsehoods of any other description. 

Not that malignity is an unfrequent feeling ; 
not that dislike, or envy, or jealousy, would not 
gladly vent itself in many a malignant falsehood, or 
other efforts of the same kind, against the peace 
and fame of its often innocent and unconscious ob- 
jects ; but that the arm of the law, in some mea- 
sure at least, defends reputations : and if it should 
not have been able to deter the slanderer from his 
purpose, it can at least avenge the slandered. 

Still, such is the prevailing tendency, in society, 
to prey on the reputations of others, (especially of 
those who are at all distinguished, either in public 
or private life ;) such the propensity to impute bad 
motives to good actions ; so common the fiend- 
like pleasure of finding or imagining blemishes in 
beings on whom even a motive-judging world in 
general gazes with respectful admiration, and be- 
stows the sacred tribute of well-earned praise ;— that 
I am convinced there are many persons, worn both 
in mind and body by the consciousness of being 
the objects of calumnies and suspicions which they 
have it not in their power to combat, who steal 



THE ORPHAN. 107 

broken-hearted to their graves, thankful for the 
summons of death, and hoping to find refuge from 
the injustice of their fellow-creatures in the bosom 
of their God and Saviour. 

With the following illustration of the lie of first- 
rate malignity, I shall conclude my observations 
on this subject. 



THE ORPHAN. 

There are persons in the world whom circum- 
stances have so entirely preserved from intercourse 
with the base and the malignant, and whose dispo- 
sitions are so free from bitterness, that they can 
scarcely believe in the existence of baseness and 
malignity. Such persons, when they hear of in- 
juries committed, and wrongs done, at the instiga- 
tion of the most trivial and apparently worthless 
motives, are apt to exclaim, " You have been im- 
posed upon. No one could be so wicked as to act 
thus upon such slight grounds ; and you are not 
relating as a sober observer of human nature and 
human action, but with the exaggerated view of a 
dealer in fiction and romance !" Happy, and 
privileged beyond the ordinary charter of human 
beings, are those who can thus exclaim ; — but the 
inhabitants of the tropics might, with equal justice, 
refuse to believe in the existence of that thing call- 
ed snow, as these unbelievers in the moral turpi- 
tude in question refuse their credence to anecdotes 
which disclose it. All they can with propriety as- 
sert is, that such instances have not come undar 
their cognizance. Yet, even to these favoured 



108 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

few, I would put the following questions: — Have 
you never experienced feelings of selfishness, an- 
ger, jealousy, or envy, which, though habits of re- 
ligious and moral restraint taught you easily to sub- 
due them, had yet troubled you long enough to 
make you fully sensible of their existence and their 
power I If so, is it not easy to believe that such 
feelings, when excited in the minds of those not un- 
der religious and moral guidance, may grow to such 
an unrestrained excess as to lead to actions and 
lies of terrible malignity ? 

I cannot but think that even the purest and best 
of my friends must answer in the affirmative. Still, 
they have reason to return thanks to their Crea- 
tor, that their lot has been cast amongst such 
" pleasant places ;*' and that it is theirs to breathe 
an atmosphere impregnated only with airs from 
heaven. 

My lot, from a peculiar train of circumstances, 
has been somewhat differently cast ; and when I 
give the following story to illustrate a lie of first- 
rate malignity, I do'so with the certain know- 
ledge that its foundation is truth. 



Constantia Gordon was the only child of a 
professional man, of great eminence, in a pro- 
vincial town. Her mother was taken from her 
before she had attained the age of womanhood, 
but not before the wise and pious precepts which 
she gave her had taken deep root, and had there- 
fore counteracted the otherwise pernicious effects 
of a showy and elaborate education. Constantia's 
talent* were considerable : and as her application 



THE ORPHAN 1Q9 

was equal to them, she was, at an early age, dis- 
tinguished in her native place for her learning and 
accomplishments. 

Among the most intimate associates of her fa- 
ther, was a gentleman of the name of Overton ; a 
man of some talerit, and some acquirement ; but, 
as his pretensions to eminence were not as univer- 
sally allowed as he thought that they ought to have 
been, he was extremely tenacious of his own con- 
sequence, excessively envious of the slightest suc- 
cesses of others, while any dissent from his dogmas 
was an offence which his mean soul was incapable 
of forgiving. 

It was only too natural that Constantia, as she 
was the petted, though not spoiled, child of a fond 
father, and the little sun of the circle in which she 
moved, was, perhaps, only too forward in giving 
her opinion on literature, and on some other sub- 
jects, which are not usually discussed by women 
at all, and still less by girls at her time of life ; and 
she had sometimes ventured to disagree in opinion 
with Oracle Overton — the nickname by which this 
man was known. But he commonly took refuge 
in sarcastic observations on the ignorance and pre- 
sumption of women in general, and of blue-stock- 
ing girls in particular, while on his face a grin of 
conscious superiority contended with the frown of 
pedantic indignation. 

Hitherto this collision of wits had taken place in 
ConstanuVs domestic circle only ; but, one day, 
Overton and the former met at the house of a no- 
bleman in the neighbourhood, and in company with 
many persons of considerable talent. While they 
were at table, the master of the house said, that it 
was his birth-day ; and some one immediately pro* 
10 



110 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

posed that all the guests, who could write verses, 
should produce one couplet at least, in honour of 
the day. 

But as Overton and Constantia were the only 
persons present who were known to be so gifted, 
they alone were assailed with earnest entreaties to 
employ their talents on the occasion. The latter, 
however, was prevented by timidity from compli- 
ance ; and she persevered in her refusal, though 
Overton loudly conjured her to indulge the compa- 
ny with a display of her -wonderful genius ; ac- 
companying his words with a sarcastic smile, which 
she well understood. Overton's muse, therefore, 
since Constantia would not let hers enter into the 
competition, walked over the course; having been 
highly applauded for a mediocre stanza of eight dog- 
grel lines. But, as Constantia's timidity vanished 
when she found herself alone with the ladies in the 
drawing-room, who were most of them friends of 
hers, she at length produced some verses, which 
not only delighted her affectionate companions, but, 
when shown to ,the gentlemen, drew from them 
more and warmer encomiums than had been be- 
stowed on the frothy tribute of her competitor : 
while the writhing and mortified Overton forced 
himself to say they were very well, very well in- 
deed, for a scribbling miss of sixteen ; insinuating 
at the same time that the pretended extempore was 
one written by her father at home, and gotten by 
heart by herself. But the giver of the feast de- 
clared that he had forgotten it was his birth-day, 
till he sat down to table ; therefore, as every one 
said, although the verses were w T ritten by a girl ot 
sixteen only, they would have done honour to a 
riper age, Overton gained nothing but added morti- 



THE ORPHAN. Ill 

fication from his mean attempt to blight Constan- 
tia's well-earned laurels, especially as his ungenerous 
conduct drew on him severe animadversions from 
some of the other guests. His fair rival also un- 
wittingly deepened his resentment against herself, 
by venturing in a playful manner, being embolden- 
ed by success, to dispute some of his paradoxes ; — 
and once she did it so successfully, that she got the 
laugh against Overton, in a manner so offensive to 
his self-love, that he suddenly left the company, 
vowing revenge, in his heart, against the being 
who had thus shone at his expense. However, he 
continued to visit at her father's house ; and was 
still considered as their most intimate friend. 

Constantia, meanwhile, increased not only both 
in beauty and accomplishments, but in qualities of 
a more precious nature ; namely, in a knowledge 
of her christian duties. But her charities were per- 
formed in secret, and so fearful was she of being 
deemed righteous overmuch, and considered as an 
enthusiast, even by her father himself, that the 
soundness of her religious character was known 
only to the sceptical Overton, and two or three 
more of her associates, while it was a notorious 
fact, that the usual companions of her father and 
herself were freethinkers and latitudinarians, both 
in politics and religion. But, if Constantia did 
not lay open her religious faith to those by whom 
she was surrounded, she fed its lamp in her own 
bosom, with never-ceasing watchfulness ; and like 
the solitary light in a cottage on the dark and 
lonely moor, it beamed on her hours of solitude 
and retirement, cheering and warming her amidst 
surrounding darkness. 



112 ILLUSTRATION* OF LYING. 

It was to do yet more for her. It was to sup- 
port her, not only under the sudden death of a fa- 
ther whom she tenderly loved, but under the unex- 
pected loss of income which his death occasioned. 
On examining his affairs, it was discovered that, 
when his debts were all paid, there would be a bare 
maintenance only remaining for his afflicted or- 
phan. Constantia's sorrow, though deep, was 
quiet and gentle as her nature ; and she felt, with 
unspeakable thankfulness, that she owed the tran- 
quillity and resignation of her mind to her religious 
convictions alone. 

The interesting orphan had only just returned 
into the society of her friends, when a Sir Edward 
Vandeleur, a young baronet of large fortune, came 
on a visit in the neighbourhood. 

Sir Edward was the darling and pride of a high- 
ly-gifted mother, and several amiable sisters ; and 
Lady Vandeleur, who was in declining health, 
had often urged her son to let her have the satis- 
faction of seeing him married before she was taken 
away from him. 

But it was no easy thing for a man like Sir Ed- 
ward Vandeleur to find a wife suited to him. His 
feelings were too much under a strong religious re- 
straint to admit of his falling violently in love, as 
the phrase is ; and beauty and accomplishments 
had no chance of captivating his heart, unless they 
were accompanied by qualities which fully satisfied 
his principles and his judgment. 

It was at this period of his life that Sir Edward 
Vandeleur was introduced to Constantia Gordon, 
at a small conversation party, at the house of a 
mutual acquaintance. 



THE ORPHAN. 113 

Her beauty, her graceful manners, over which 
sorrow had cast a new and sobered charm, and her 
great conversational powers, made her presently 
an object of interest to Sir Edward; and when he 
heard her story, that interest was considerably in- 
creased by pity for her orphan state and altered 
circumstances. 

Therefore, though Sir Edward saw Constantia 
rarely, and never, except at one house, he felt her 
at every interview growing more on his esteem and 
admiration ; and he often thought of the recluse in 
her mourning simple attire, and wished himself by 
her side, when he was the courted, flattered, atten- 
dant on a reigning belle. 

Not that he was in love ; — that is, not that he 
had imbibed an attachment which his reason could 
not at once enable him to conquer, if it should ever 
disapprove its continuance ; — but his judgment, as 
well as his taste, told him that Constantia was the 
sort of woman to pass life with. "Seek for a com- 
panion in a wife !" had always been his mother's 
advice. " Seek for a woman who has understand- 
ing enough to know her duties, and piety and prin- 
ciple enough to enable her to fulfil them ; one who 
can teach her children to follow in her steps, and 
form them for virtue here, and happiness hereaf- 
ter !" " Surely," thought Sir Edward, as he re- 
called this natural advice, " I have found the wo- 
man so described in Constantia Gordon !" But 
he was still too prudent to pay her any marked at- 
tention ; especially as Lady Vandeleur had recom- 
mended caution. 

At this moment his mother wrote thus : — 

" I do not see any apparent objection to the lady 
in question. Still, be cautious ! Is there no ore 
10* 



114 IXLtJiTRATION* OT LYlirtf. 

at who has known her from her childhood, 

and can give you an account of her and her moral 
and religious principles, which can be relied upon? 
Death, that great discoverer of secrets, proved that 
her father was not a very worthy man ; still, bad 
parents have good children, and vice versa ; but, 
inquire and be wary." 

The day after Sir Edward received this letter, 
he was introduced to Overton at the house of a 
gentleman in the neighbourhood ; and at the most 
unfortunate period possible for Constantia Gordon. 
Overton had always pretended to have a sincere 
regard for the poor orphan, and no one was more 
loud in regrets for her reduced fortune ; but, as he 
was fond of giving her pain, he used to mingle with 
his pity so many severe remarks on her father's 
thoughtless conduct, that had he not been her 
father's most familiar friend, she would have for- 
bidden him her presence. 

One day, having found her alone at her lodgings, 
he accompanied his expressions of affected condo- 
lence with a proposal to give her a bank-note now 
and then, to buy her a new gown ; as he was (he 
said) afraid that she would not have money suf- 
ficient to set off her charms to advantage. To real 
kindness, however vulgarly worded, Constantia's 
heart was ever open ; but she immediately saw that 
this offer, prefaced as it was by abuse of her father, 
was merely the result of malignity and coarseness 
combined ; and her spirit, though habitually gentle, 
was roused to indignant resentment. 

But who, that has ever experienced the bitter- 
ness of feeling excited by the cold, spiteful efforts 
of a malignant temper to irritate a gentle and ge- 
nerous nature, can withhold their sympathy and 



T8JS 0EFH4J*. 116 

pardon from Constantia on this occasion? At last, 
gratified at having made his victim a while forego 
her nature, and at being now enabled to represent 
her as a vixeil, he took his leave with hypocritical 
kindness, calling her his " naughty, scolding Con" 
leaving her to humble herself before that Being 
whom she feared to have offended by her violence, 
and to weep over the recollection of an interview 
which had added, to her other miseries, that of self- 
reproach. 

Overton, meanwhile, did not retire unhurt from 
the combat. The orphan had uttered, in her ago- 
ny, some truths which he could not forget. She 
had held up to him a mirror of himself, from which 
he found it difficult to turn away ; while in propor- 
tion to his sense of suffering was his resentment 
against its fair cause ; and his desire of revenge 
was in proportion to both. 

It was on this very day that he dined in compa- 
ny with Sir Edward Vandeleur, who was soon in- 
formed, by the master of the house, that Overton 
had been, from her childhood, the friend and inti- 
mate of Constantia Gordon ; and the same gentle- 
man informed Overton, in private, that Sir Edward 
was supposed to entertain thoughts of paying his 
addresses to Constantia. 

Inexpressible was Overton's consternation at 
hearing that this girl, whose poverty he had in- 
sulted, whom he disliked because she had been a 
thorn to his self-love, and under whose just se- 
, verity he was still smarting, was likely, not only 
to be removed from his power to torment her, 
but to be raised above him by a fortunate mar- 
riage. 



116 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

Great was his triumph, therefore, when Sir Ed- 
ward, before they parted, requested an interview 
with him the following morning, at his lodgings in 

the town of , adding, that he wished to ask 

him some questions concerning their mutual friend, 
Constantia Gordon. 

Accordingly they met ; and the following con- 
versation took place. Sir Edward began by can- 
didly confessing the high opinion which he had con- 
ceived of Constantia, and his earnest wish to have 
its justice confirmed by the testimony of her oldest 
and most intimate friend. " Sir Edward," replied 
the exulting hypocrite, with well acted reluctance, 
" you put an honourable and a kind-hearted man, 
like myself, into a complete embarras" — " Sir, 
what do I hear ?" cried Sir Edward, starting from 
his seat, " Can you feel any embarrassment, when 
called upon to bear testimony in favour of Constan- 
tia Gordon?" — " I dare say you cannot think such 
a thing possible," he replied with a sneer ; " for 
men in love are usually blind." — " But I am not 
in love yet," eagerly replied Sir Edward; "and 
it very much depends on this conversation whether 
I ever am so with the lady in question." — " Well 
then, Sir Edward, however unpalatable, I must 
speak the truth. I need not tell you that Constan- 
tia is beautiful, accomplished, and talented, is, I 
think, the new word." — " No, Sir; I already know 
she is all these; and she appears to me as gentle, 
virtuous, and pious, as she is beautiful." — " I dare 
say she does ; but, as to her gentleness, however, I 
might provoke her improperly ; — but, I assure you, 
she flew into such a passion with me yesterday, 
that I thought she would have struck me!" — " Is 
it possible ? I really feel a difficulty in believing 



TUB ORFHASf, U 7 

you !" — " No doubt ; — so let us talk of something 
else." — " No, no, Mr. Overton ; I came hither to 
be informed on a subject deeply interesting to me ; 
and, at whatever risk of disappointment, I will 
await all you have to say." — " I have nothing to 
say, Sir Edward ; you know Con is beautiful and 
charming; and is not that enough?" — "No ! it is 
not enough. Outward graces are not sufficient to 
captivate and fix me, unless they are accompanied 
by charms that fade not with time, but blossom to 
eternity." — "Whew!" exclaimed Overton, with 
well-acted surprise. "I see that you are a metho- 
dist, Sir Edward ; and if so, my friend Con will not 
suit you." " Does it follow that I am a metho- 
dist, because I require that my wife should be a 
woman of pious and moral habits ?" — " Oh ! for 
morals, these, indeed, my friend Con would suit 
you well enough. Let her morals pass; — but as 
to hex piety, religion will never turn her head." — 
"What do you mean, Mr. Overton?" — "Why, 
sir, our lovely friend has learned, from the company 
which she has kept, to think freely on such sub- 
jects ; — very freely ; — for women, you know, al- 
ways go to extremes. Men keep within the ration- 
al bounds of deism; but the female sceptic, weak- 
er in intellect, and incapable of reasoning, never 
rests, till she loses herself in the mazes and ab- 
surdities of atheism." Had Sir Edward Vandeleur 
seen the fair smooth skin of Constantia suddenly co- 
vered with leprosy, he would not have been more 
shocked than he was at being informed of this utter 
blight to her mental beauty in his rightly-judging 
eyes ; — and, starting from his seat, he exclaimed, 
" do you really mean to assert that your fair friend 
is an atheist ?" — " Sir Edward, I am Constantia's 



118 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

friend ; and I was her father's friend ; and I am 
sorry these things have been forced from me ; — but 
I could not deceive an honourable man, who placed 
confidence also in my honour ; though, as Constan- 
tia is the child of an old friend, and poor, it would 
be, perhaps, a saving to my pocket, if she were 
well married." — "Then, it is true !" said Sir Ed- 
ward, clasping his hands in agony ; " and this love- 
ly girl is what I hate to name ! Yet, she looks so 
right-minded ! and I have thought the expression 
of her dark blue eye was that of pious resigna- 
tion !" — " Yes, yes ; I know that look ; and she 
knows that is her prettiest look. That eye, half 
turned up, shows her fine long dark eyelashes to 
great advantage !" — " Alas !" replied Sir Edward, 
deeply sighing, " if this be so — oh ! what are 
looks ? Good morning. You have distressed, but 
you have saved me." — When Overton, soon after, 
saw Sir Edward drive past in his splendid curricle, 
he exulted that he had prevented Constantia from 
ever sitting there by his side*. 

Yet he was, as I have said before, one of the few 
who knew how deeply and sincerely Constantia 
was a believer; for he had himself, in vain, at- 
tempted to shake her belief, and thence, he had 
probably a double pleasure in representing her as 
he did. 

Sir Edward was engaged that evening to meet 
Constantia at the accustomed house ; and, as his 
attentions to her had been rather marked, and her 
friends, with the usual dangerous officiousness on 
such occasions, had endeavoured to convince her 
that she had made a conquest, as the phrase is, ot 
the young baronet, the expectation of meeting him 
was become a circumstance of no small interest to 



THE ORPHAN* 119 



her ; though she was far too humble to be con- 
vinced that they were right in their conjectures. 

But the mind of Const an tia was too much un- 
der the guidance of religious principle, to allow her 
to love any man, however amiable, unless she was 
sure of being beloved by him. She was too deli- 
cate, and had too much self-respect, to be capable 
of such a weakness ; she therefore escaped that 
danger, of which I have seen the peace of some 
young women become the victim ; namely, that of 
being talked and flattered into a hopeless passion 
by the idle wishes and representations of gossiping 
acquaintances. And well was it for her peace that 
she had been thus holily on her guard ; for, when 
Sir Edward Vandeleur, instead of keeping his en- 
gagement, sent a note to inform her friend that he 
was not able to wait on her, as he thought of going 
to London the next day, Constantia felt that the 
idea of his attachment was as unfounded as it had 
been pleasing, and she rejoiced that the illusion 
had not been long enough to endanger her tranqui- 
lity. Still, she could not but own, in the secret of 
her heart, that the prospect of passing life with a 
being apparently so suited to herself, was one on 
which her thoughts had dwelt with involuntary 
pleasure ; and a tear started to her eyes, at the 
idea that she might see him no more. But, she 
considered it as the tear of weakness, and though 
her sleep that night was short, it was tranquil, and 
she rose the next morning to resume the duties of 
the day with her accustomed alacrity. In her 
walks she met Sir Edward, but, happily for her, as 
he was leaning on Overton's arm, whom she had 
not seen since she had parted with him in anger, a 
turn was given to her feelings, by the approach of 



120 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

the latter, which enabled her to conquer at once 
her emotion at the unexpected sight of the former. 
Still, the sight of Overton occasioned in her disa- 
greeable and painful recollections, which gave an 
unpleasing and equivocal expression to her beauti- 
ful features, and enabled Overton to observe, "You 
see, Sir Edward, how her conscience flies in her 
face at seeing me ! How are you ? How are 
you?" said Overton, catching her hand as she 
passed. "Have you forgiven me yet? Oh! you 
vixen, how you scolded me the other day?" Con- 
stantia, too much mortified and agitated to speak, 
and repel the charge, replied by a look of indigna- 
tion ; and, snatching her hand away, she bowed to 
Sir Edward, and hastened out of sight. " You 
see," cried Overton, " that she resents still ! and 
how like a fury she looked ! You must be con- 
vinced that I told you the truth. Now, could you 
believe, Sir Edward, that pretty Con could have 
looked in that manner?" "Certainly not; and 
appearances are indeed deceitful." Still, Sir Ed- 
ward wished Constantia had given him an oppor- 
tunity of bidding her farewell ; however, he left his 
good wishes and respects for her with their mutual 
friend, and set off that evening to join his mother at 
Hastings. " But are you sure, Edward," said 
Lady Vandeleur, when he had related to her all that 
had passed, " that this Overton is a man to be de- 
pended upon ?" " Oh, yes ! and he could have 
no motive for calumniating her, but the contrary, as 
it would have been a relief to his mind and pocket 
to get his old friend's daughter well married." 
" But, does she appear to her other friends ne- 
glectful of her religious duties, as if she had really 
no religion at all?" " So far from it, that she has 



THE OHM AN. 121 

always been punctual in the outward performance 
of them ; therefore, no one but Overton, the con- 
fidential friend and intimate of the family, could 
suspect or know her real opinions ; thus she adds, 
I fear, hypocrisy to scepticism. Overton also accu- 
ses her of being violent in her temper ; and I was 
unexpectedly enabled to sec the truth of this accu- 
sation, in a measure, confirmed. Therefore, in- 
deed, dear mother, ail I have to do is to forget her, 
and resume my intention of accompanying you and 
my sisters to the continent." Accordingly they 
set off very soon on a foreign tour. 

Constantia, after she left Overton and Sir Ed- 
ward so hastily and suddenly, returned home in no 
enviable state of mind ; because she felt sure that 
her manner had been such as to convince the latter 
that she was the violent creature which Overton had 
represented her to be ; — and though she had calm- 
ly resigned all idea of being beloved by Sir Edward 
Vandeleur, she was not entirely indifferent to his 
good opinion. Besides, she feared that her quit- 
ting him without one word of kind farewell, might 
appear to him a proof of pique and disappointment; 
nor could she be quite sure that somewhat of that 
feeling did not impel her to hasten abruptly away ; 
and it was some time before she could conquer her 
self-blame and her regret. But, at length, she re- 
flected that there was a want of proper self-govern- 
ment in dwelling at all on recollections of Sir 
Edward Vandeleur ; and she forced herself into 
society and absorbing occupation. 

Hitherto Constantia had been contented to re- 
main in idleness ; but, as her income was, she 
found, barely equal to her maintenance v and she 
was therefore obliged to relinquish nearly all her 



122 ILLUSTRATIONS OT LYING. 

charities, she resolved to turn her talents to ac- 
count ; and was just about to decide between two 
plans, which she had thought desirable, when an 
uncle in India died, and the question was decided 
in a very welcome and unexpected manner. Till 
this gentleman married, her father had such large 
expectations from him, that he had fancied them 
a sufficient excuse for his profuse expenditure ; but, 
when his brother, by having children, destroyed his 
hopes of wealth from that quarter, he had not 
strength of mind enough to break the expensive 
habits which he had acquired. To the deserving 
child, however, was destined the wealth withheld 
from the undeserving parent. Constantia's uncle's 
wife and children died before he did, and she be- 
came sole heiress to his large fortune. This event 
communicated a sensation of gladness to the 
whole town in which the amiable orphan resided. 

Constantia had borne her faculties so meekly, 
had been so actively benevolent, and was thence 
so generally beloved, that she was now daily over- 
powered with thankful and pleasing emotion, at 
beholding countenances which, at sight of her, were 
lighted up with affectionate sympathy and joy. 

Overton was one of the first persons whom she 
desired to see, on this accession of fortune. Her 
truly christian spirit had long made her wish to 
hold out to him her hand, in token of forgiveness ; 
but she wished to do so more especially now, be- 
cause he could not suspect her of being influenced 
by any mercenary views. Overton, however, 
meant to call on her, whether she invited him or 
not ; as, such was his love and respect for wealth, 
that, though the poor Constantia was full of faults 
in his eye, the rich Constantia was very likely to 



THE ORPHAN. 123 

appear to him, in time, impeccable. He was at 
this period Mayor of the place in which he lived ; 
and, having been knighted for carrying up an ad- 
dress, he became desirous of using the privilege, 
which, according to Shakspeare's Falconbridge, 
knighthood gives a man, of making " any Joan a 
lady." Nor was it long before he entertained se- 
rious thoughts of marrying; and why not? as he 
was only fifty ; was very young-looking for his 
age ; was excessively handsome still ; and had 
now a title in addition to a good fortune. The 
only difficulty w r as to make a choice ; for he was 
very sure that he must be the choice of any one to 
whom he offered himself. 

But where could he find in one woman all the 
qualities which he required in a wife ! She must 
have youth and beauty, or he could not love 
her ; good principles, or he could not trust her ; 
and, though he was not religious himself, he had a 
certain consciousness that the best safeguard for a 
woman's principles was to be found in piety ; there- 
fore, he resolved that his wife should be a religious 
woman. Temper, patience, and forbearance, were 
also requisites in the woman he married ; and, as 
the last and best recommendation, she must have 
a large fortune. Reasonable man ! youth, beauty, 
temper, virtue, piety, and riches ! but what woman 
of his acquaintance possessed all these? No one, 
he believed, but that forgiving being whom he had 
represented as an atheist— " that vixen Con!" 
and while this conviction came over his mind, a 
blush of shame passed over even his brassy brow. 
However, it was soon succeeded by one of plea- 
sure, when he thought that, as Constantia was evi* 
dently uneasy till she had made it up with him, as 



124 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the phrase is, it was not unlikely that she had a se^- 
cret liking to him ; and as to her scribbling verses, 
and pretending to be literary, he would take care 
that she should not write when she was his wife ; 
and he really thought he had better propose to her 
at once, especially as it was a duty in him to make 
her a lady himself, since he had prevented another 
man's doing so. There was perhaps another in- 
ducement to marry Constantia. It would give him 
an opportunity of tormenting her now and then, and 
making her smart for former impertinences. Per- 
haps, this motive was nearly as strong as the nest 
Be that as it may, Overton had, at length, the pre- 
sumption to make proposals of marriage to the 
young and lovely heiress, who, though ignorant of 
his base conduct to her, and the lie of first-rate 
malignity with which he had injured her fame, 
and blighted her prospects, had still a dislike to his 
manners and character, which it was impossible for 
any thing to overcome. He was therefore refused, 
and in a manner so decided, and, spite of herself, 
so haughty, that Overton's heart renewed all its 
malignity towards her; and his manner became so 
rude and offensive, that she was constrained to 
refuse him admittance, and go on a visit to a friend 
at some distance, intending not to return till the 
house which she had purchased ill a village near to 

was ready for her. But she had not been 

absent many months when she received a letter one 
evening, to inform her that her dearest friend at 

was supposed to be in the greatest danger, 

and she was requested to set off directly. To dis- 
obey this summons was impossible; and, as the 
mail passed the house where she was, and she was 
certain of getting on faster that way than any other, 



THE ORPHAN. 125 

she resolved, accompanied by her servant, to go 
by the mail, if possible ; and, happily, there were 
two places vacant. It was night when Constantia 
and her maid entered the coach, in which two gen- 
tlemen were already seated ; and, to the conster- 
nation of Constantia, she soon saw, as they passed 
near a lamp, that her vis-a-vis was Overton ! He 
recognised her at the same moment ; and instantly 
began, in the French language, to express his joy 
at meeting her, and to profess the faithfulness of his 
fervent affection. In vain did she try to force con- 
versation with the other passenger, who seemed 
willing to talk, and who, though evidently not a 
gentleman, was much preferable, in her opinion, to 
the new Sir Richard. He would not allow her to 
attend to any conversation but his own ; and, as it 
was with difficulty that she could keep her hand 
from his rude grasp, she tried to change seats with 
her maid ; but Overton forcibly withheld her ; and 
she thought it was better to endure the evil patient- 
ly, than violently resist it. When the mail stopped, 
that the passengers might sup, Constantia hoped 
Overton would, at least, leave her for a time ; but, 
though the other passenger got out, he kept his 
seat, and was so persevering, and was so much 
more disagreeable when the restraint imposed on 
him by the presence of others was removed, that 
she was glad when the coach was again full, and 
the mail drove off. 

Overton, however, became so increasingly offen- 
sive to her, that, at length, she assured him, in 
language the most solemn and decided, that no- 
thing should ever induce her to be his wife ; and 
that, were she pennyless, service would be more de- 
sirable to her than union with him. 
11* 



126 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

This roused his anger even to frenzy ; and, still 
speaking French, a language which he was sure the 
illiterate man in the corner could not understand, 
he told her that she refused him only because she 
loved Sir Edward Vandeleur; "but," said he, 
" you have no chance of obtaining him. I have 
taken care to prevent that. I gave him such a 
character of you as frightened him away from you, 

and n " Base-minded man !" cried Con- 

stantia ; " what did you, what could you say 
against my character ?" — u Oh ! I said nothing 
against your morals. I only told him you were an 
atheist, and a vixen, that is all : — and, you know, 
you are the latter, though not the former ; but are 
more like a methodist than an atheist !" — " And 
you told him these horrible falsehoods ! And if 

you had not, would he have did he then ? 

but I know not what I say ; and I am 

miserable ! Cruel, wicked man ! how could you 
thus dare to injure and misrepresent an unprotect- 
ed orphan ! and the child of your friend ! and to 
calumniate me to htm too ! to Sir Edward Vande- 
leur ! Oh ! it was cruel indeed !" — " What ! 
then you wished to please him, did you ? Answer 
me !" he vociferated, seizing both her hands in 
his; "Are you attached to Sir Edward Vande- 
leur ?" But, before Constantia could answer no, 
and, while faintly screaming with apprehension and 
pain, she vainly tried- to free herself from Overton's 
nervous grasp, a powerful hand rescued her from 
the ruffian gripe. Then, while the dawn shone 
brightly upon her face, Constantia and Overton at 
the same moment recognised, in her rescuer, Sir 
Edward Vandeleur himself! 

He was just returned from France ; and was on 



LIES OF SECOND BATE MALIGNITY. 127 

his way to the neighbourhood of — — -; being row, 
as he believed, able to see Constantia with entire 
indifference ; when, as one of bis horses became ill, 
he resolved to take that place in the mail which the 
other passenger had quitted for the box ; and had 
thus the pleasure of hearing all suspicions, all impu- 
tations, against the character of Constantia cleared 
off, and removed, at once, and for ever I Con- 
stanta's joy was little inferior to his own ; but it 
was soon lost in terror at the probable result of the 
angry emotions of Sir Edward and Overton. Her 
fear, however, vanished, when the former assured 
the latter, that the man who could injure an inno- 
cent woman, by a lie of first-rate malignity, 
was beneath even the resentment of an honoura- 
ble man. 

I shall only add, that Overton left the mail at the 
next stage, baffled, disgraced, and miserable; that 
Constantia found her friend recovering ; and that 
the next time she travelled along that road, it was 
as the bride of Sir Edward Vandeleur. 



CHAPTER IX. 

LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 

I have observed, in the foregoing chapter, that 
lies of first-rate malignity are not frequent, 
because the arm of the law defends reputations ; — 
but, against lies of second-rate malignity, the law 
holds out no protection ; nor is there a tribunal of 
sufficient power either to deter any one from utter- 
ing them, or to punish the utterer. The lies in 



128 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

question soring from the spirit of detraction ; a spi- 
rit more widely diffused in society than any other ; 
and it gives birth to satire, ridicule, mimickry, quiz- 
zing, and lies of second-rate malignity, as certainly 
as a wet season brings snails. 

I shall now explain what I consider as lies of 
second-rate malignity ; — namely, tempting per- 
sons, by dint of flattery, to do what they are inca- 
pable of doing well, from the mean, malicious wish 
of leading them to expose themselves, in order 
that their tempter may enjoy a hearty laugh at 
their expense. Persuading a man to drink more 
than his head can bear, by assurances that the wine 
is not strong, and that he has not drunk as much 
as he thinks he has, in order to make him intoxi- 
cated, and that his persuaders may enjoy the cruel 
delight of witnessing his drunken silliness, his vain- 
glorious boastings, and those physical contortions, 
or mental weaknesses, which intoxication is always 
sure to produce. Complimenting either man or 
woman on qualities which they do not possess, in 
hopes of imposing on their credulity : praising a la- 
dy^ work, or dress, to her face ; and then, as soon 
as she is no longer present, not only abusing both 
her work, and her dress, but laughing at her weak- 
ness, in believing the praise sincere. Lavishing 
encomiums on a man's abilities and learning in 
his presence ; and then, as soon as he is out of hear- 
ing, expressing contempt for his credulous belief in 
the sincerity of the praises bestowed ; and wonder 
that he should be so blind and conceited as not to 
know that he was in learning only a smatterer, and 
in understanding just not a fool. All these are lies 
of second-rate malignity, which cannot be exceeded 
in base and petty treachery. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN, 129 

The following story will, I trust, explain fully 
what, in the common intercourse of society, I con- 
sider as LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN 

AND 

THE YOUNG ONE. 

Nothing shows the force of habit more than 
the tenaciousness with which those adhere to 
economical usages, who, by their own industry and 
unexpected good fortune, are become rich in the 
decline of life. 

A gentleman, whom I shall call Dr. Albany, had, 
early in life, taken his degree at Cambridge, as a 
doctor of physic, and had settled in London as a 
physician ; but had worn away the best part of his 
existence in vain expectation of practice, when an 
old bachelor, a college friend, whom he had great- 
ly served, died, and left him the whole of his large 
fortune. 

Dr. Albany had indeed deserved this bequest ; 
for he had rendered his friend the greatest of all 
services. He had rescued him, by his friendly ad- 
vice, and enlightened arguments, from scepticism, 
apparently the most hopeless ; and, both by pre- 
cept and example, had allured him along the way 
that leads to salvation. 

But, as wealth came to Dr. Albany too late in 
life for him to think of marrying, and as he had no 
relations who needed all his fortune, he resolved to 



130 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

leave the greatest part of it to those friends who 
wanted it the most. 

Hitherto, he had scarcely ever left London ; as 
he had thought it right to wait at home to receive 
business, even though business never came ; but 
now he was resolved to renew the neglected ac- 
quaintances of his youth ; and, knowing that some 
of his early friends lived near Cheltenham, Leaming- 
ton, and Malvern, he resolved to visit those water- 
ing-places, in hopes of meeting there some of these 
well-remembered faces. 

Most men, under his circumstances, would have 
ordered a handsome carriage, and entered Chel- 
tenham in style ; but, as I before observed, habits 
of economy adheres so closely to persons thus si- 
tuated, that Dr. Albany could not prevail on him- 
self to travel in a manner more in apparent ac- 
cordance with the acquisition of such a fortune. 
He therefore went by a cheap day-coach ; nor did 
he take a servant with him. But, though still de- 
nying indulgences to himself, the first wish of his 
heart was to be generous to others ; and, surely, 
that economy which is unaccompanied by avarice 
may, even in the midst of wealth, be denominated 
a virtue. 

While dinner was serving up, when they stopped 
on the road, Albany walked up a hill near the inn, 
and was joined there by a passenger from another 
coach. During their walk he observed a very 
pretty house on a rising ground in the distance, and 
asked his companion who lived there. The latter 
replied, that it was the residence of a clergyman, of 
the name of Musgrave. " Musgrave !" he eagerly 
replied, " what Musgrave ? Is his name Augus- 
tus ?"— « Yes."—" Is he married ?"— " Yes."— 



THE OtD GENTLEMAN". 131 

4t Has he a family ?"— " Oh yes, a large one ; 
six daughters, and one son ; and he has found it a 
hard task to bring them up, as he wished to make 
them accomplished. The son is now going to col- 
lege." — " Are they an amiable family V — " Very ; 
the girls sing and play well, and draw well." — 
" And what is the son to be ?" — " A clergyman." 
— " Has he any chance of a living?"— " Not that 
I know of; but he must be something ; and a lega- 
cy which the father has just had, of a few hundred 
pounds, will enable him to pay college expenses, 
till his son gets ordained, and can take curacies." — 
" Is Musgrave," said Albany, after a pause, " a 
likely man to give a cordial welcome to an old 
friend, whom he has not seen for many years ?" — 
" Oh yes ; he is very hospitable ; and there he is, 
now going into his own gate." — " Then I will not 
go on," said Albany, hastening to the stables. 
" There, coachman," cried he, " take your mo- 
ney ; and give me my little portmanteau." 

Augustus Musgrave had been a favourite college 
friend of Dr. Albany's, and he had many associa- 
tions with his name and image, which were dear 
to his heart. 

The objects of them were gone for ever ; but, 
thus recalled, they came over his mind like strains 
of long-forgotten music, which he had loved and 
carolled in youth ; throwing so strong a feeling 
of tenderness over the recollection of Musgrave, 
that he felt an irresistible desire to see him again, 
and greet his wife and children in the language of 
glowing good-will. 

But, when he was introduced into his friend's 
presence, he had the mortification of finding that 



132 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

he was not recognized ; and was obliged to tell 
his name. 

The name, however, seemed to electrify Mus- 
grave with affectionate gladness. He shook his old 
friend heartily by the hand, presented him to his 
wife and daughters, and for some minutes moved 
and spoke with the brightness and alacrity of ear- 
ly youth. 

But the animation was momentary. The cares 
of a family, and the difficulty of keeping up the ap- 
pearance of a gentleman with an income not suffi- 
cient for his means, had preyed on Musgrave's 
spirits ; especially as he knew himself to be involv- 
ed in debt. He had also other cares. The weak- 
ness of his nature, which he dignified by the name 
of tenderness of heart, had made him allow his 
wife and children to tyrannize over him ; and his 
son, who was an universal quizzer, did not permit 
even his father to escape from his impertinent ridi- 
cule. But then Musgrave was assured, by his own 
family, that his son Marmaduke was a wit ; and 
that, when he was once in orders, his talents w r ould 
introduce him into the first circles, and lead to ulti- 
mate promotion in his profession. 

I have before said that Dr. Albany did not travel 
like a gentleman ; nor were his e very-day clothes 
at all indicative of a well-filled purse. Therefore, 
though he was a physician, and a man of pleasing 
manners, Musgrave's fine lady wife, and her ionnish 
daughters, could have readily excused him, if he 
had not persuaded their unexpected guest to stay a 
week with them ; and, with a frowning brow, they 
saw the portmanteau, which the strange person had 
brought himself, carried into the best chamber. 

But oh ! the astonishment and the comical gri- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 133 

maces with which Marmaduke Musgrave, on his 
coming in from fishing, beheld the new guest ! 
Welcome smiled on one side of his face, but scorn 
sneered on the other ; and when Albany retired to 
dress, he declared that the only thing which consol- 
ed hirn for finding such a person forced on them, 
was the consciousness that he could extract great 
fun out of the old quiz, and serve him up for the 
entertainment of himself and friends. 

To this amiable exhibition the mother and daugh- 
ters looked forward with great satisfaction ; while 
his father having vainly talked of the dues of hos- 
pitality, gave in, knowing that it was in vain to 
contend ; comforting himself with the hope that, 
while Marmaduke was quizzing his guest, he must 
necessarily leave him alone. 

In the meanwhile, how different were the cogi- 
tations and the plans of the benevolent Albany ! 
He had a long tete-a-tete walk with Musgrave, 
which had convinced him that his old friend was 
not happy, owing, he suspected, to his narrow in- 
come and expensive family. 

Then his son was going to college ; a dangerous 
and ruinous place : and, while the good old man 
was dressing for dinner, he had laid plans of action 
which made him feel more deeply thankful than 
ever for the wealth so unexpectedly bestowed on 
him. Of this wealth he had, as yet, said nothing 
to Musgrave. He was not purse-proud ; and when 
he heard his friend complain of his poverty, he 
shrunk from saying how rich he himself was. He 
had therefore simply said that he was enabled to re- 
tire from business ; and when Musgrave saw his 
friend's independent, economical habits, as evinced 
by his mode of travelling, lie concluded that he had 
12 



134 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

only gained a small independence, sufficient for his 
slender wants. 

To those, to whom amusement is every thing, 
and who can enjoy fun even when it is procured 
by the sacrifice of every benevolent feeling, that 
evening at the rectory, when the family party was 
increased by the arrival of some of the neighbours, 
would have been an exquisite treat ; for Marma- 
duke played off the unsuspicious old man to admi- 
ration ; mimioked him even to his face, unpercei- 
ved by him ; and having found out that Albany had 
not only a passion for musick, but unfortunately 
fancied that he could sing himself, he urged his 
guest, by his flatteries, lies of second-rate malig- 
nity, to sing song after song, in order to make him 
expose himself for the entertainment of the com- 
pany, and give him an opportunity of perfecting 
his mimickry. 

Blind, infatuated, contemptible boy ! short sight- 
ed trifler on the path of the world ! Marmaduke 
Musgrave saw not that the very persons who seem- 
ed to idolize his pernicious talents must, unless 
they were lost to all sense of moral feeling, despise 
and distrust the youth who could play on the weak- 
ness of an unoffending, artless old man, and violate 
the rights of hospitality to his father's friend. 

But Marmaduke had no heart, and but little 
mind ; for mimickry is the lowest of the talents ; 
and to be even a successful quizzer requires no 
talent at all. But his father had once a heart, 
though cares and pecuniary embarrassments had 
choked it up, and substituted selfishness for sensi- 
bility : the sight of his early companion had called 
some of the latter quality into action ; and he seri- 
ously expostulated with his son on his daring to 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN, 135 

turn so respectable a man into ridicule. But Mar- 
maduke answered him by insolent disregard ; and 
when he also said, if your friend be so silly as to 
sing, that is, do what he cannot do, am I not justi- 
fied in laughing at him ? Musgrave assented to the 
proposition. He might, however, have replied, 
" but you are not justified in lying, in order to urge 
him on, nor in saying to him, 'you can sing,' 
when you know he cannot. If he be weak, it is 
not necessary that you should be treacherous/''' 
But Musgrave always came off halting from a com- 
bat with his -undutiful son; he therefore sighed, 
ceased, and turned away. On one point Marma- 
duke was right : — when vanity prompts us to do 
what we cannot do well, while conceit leads us to 
fancy that our efforts are successful, we are perhaps 
fit objects for ridicule : — A consideration which 
holds up to us this important lesson ; namely, that 
our oxen weakness alone can, for any length of time, 
make us victims of the satire and malignity cf 
others. When Albany's visit to Musgrave was 
drawing near to its conclusion, he was very desi- 
rous of being asked to prolong it, as he had become 
attached to his friend's children, from living with 
them, and witnessing their various accomplish- 
ments, and was completely the dupe of Manna- 
duke's treacherous compliments. He was there- 
fore glad when he, as well as the Musgraves, wag 
invited to dine at a house in the neighbourhood, on 
the very day intended for his departure. This cir- 
cumstance led them all, with one accord to say, 
that he must remain at least a day longer, while 
Marmaduke exclaimed, " Go you shall not ! Our 
friends would be so disappointed, if they and their 
company did not hear you sing and act that sweet 



135 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

song about Chloe ! and all the pleasure of the 
evening would be destroyed to me, dear sir, if you 
were not there !" 

This w T as more than enough to make Albany put 
off his departure ; and he accompanied the Mus- 
graves to the dinner party. They dined at an early 
hour ; so early, that it was yet daylight, when, tea 
being over, the intended amusements of the after- 
noon began, of which the most prominent was to 
be the vocal powers of the mistaken Albany, who, 
without much pressing, after sundry flatteries from 
Marmaduke, cleared his throat, and began to sing 
and act the song of "Chloe." At first, he was 
hoarse, and stopped to apologize for want of voice ; 
"Nonsense!" cried Marmaduke, "you were never 
in better voice in your life ! Pray go on ; you are 
only nervous !" while the side of his face not next 
to Albany, was distorted with laughter and ridicule. 
Albany, believing him, continued his song; and 
Marmaduke, sitting a little behind him, took off the 
distorted expression of his countenance and mi- 
micked his odd action. But, at this moment, the 
broadest splendour of the setting sun threw its 
beams into a large pier glass opposite, with such 
brightness, that Albany's eyes were suddenly at- 
tracted to it, and thence to his treacherous neigh- 
bour, whom he detected in the act of mimicking 
him in mouth, attitude, and expression — while be- 
hind him he saw some of the company laughing 
with a degree of violence which was all but audi- 
ble ! ' 

Albany paused, in speechless consternation — and 
when Marmaduke asked why "he did not go on, 
as every one was delighted," the susceptible old 
man hid his face in his hands, shocked, mortified, 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 137 

and miserable, but taught and enlightened. Mar- 
maduke, however, nothing doubting, presumed to 
clap him on the back, again urging him to proceed ; 
but the indignant Albany, turning suddenly round, 
and throwing off his arm with angry vehemence, 
exclaimed, in the touching tone of wounded feeling, 
" Oh ! thou serpent, that I would have cherished 
in my bosom, was it for thee to sting me thus? 
But I was an old fool : and the lesson, though a 
painful one, will, I trust, be salutary. - " — " What is 
all this? what do you mean?" faltered out Mar- 
maduke ; but the rest of the party had not courage 
enough to speak ; and many of them rejoiced in the 
detection of baseness which, though it amused their 
depraved taste, was very offensive to their moral 
sense. "What does it mean?" cried Albany, "I 
appeal to all present, whether they do not under- 
stand my meaning, and whether my resentment be 
not just!" "I hope, my dear friend, that you 
acquit me," said the distressed father. " Of all," 
he replied, " except of the fault of not having 
taught your son better morals and manners. 
Young man !" he continued, " the next time you 
exhibit any one as your butt, take care that you do 
not sit opposite a pier glass. And now, sir," ad- 
dressing himself to the master of the house, " let 
me request to have a postchaise sent for to the 
nearest town directly.*" " Surety, you will not 
leave us, and in anger," cried all the Musgraves, 
Marmaduke excepted. " I hope I do not go in 
anger, but I cannot stay," cried he, " because I 
have lost my confidence in you." The gentleman 
of the house, who thought Albany right in going, 
and wished to make him all the amends he could, 
for having allowed Marmaduke to turn him into 
12* 



138 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ridicule, interrupted him, to say that his own car- 
riage waited his orders, arid would convey him 
whithersoever he wished. " I thank you, sir, and 
accept your oner*" he replied, u since the sooner t 
quit this company, in which I have so lamentably 
exposed myself, the better it will be for you, and 
for us all." Having said this, he took the agitated 
Musgrave by the hand, bowed to his wife and 
daughters, who hid their confusion under distant 
and haughty airs ; then, stepping opposite to Mar- 
maduke, who felt it difficult to meet the expression 
of that eye, on which just anger and a sense of in- 
jury had bestowed a power hitherto unknown to it, 
he addressed him thus : " Before we part, I must 
tell you, young man, that I intended, urged, I hum- 
bly trust, by virtuous considerations, to expend on 
your maintenance at college a part of that large in- 
come which I cannot spend on myself I had also 
given orders to my agent to purchase for me the 
ad vows on of a living now on sale, intending to give 
it to you ; here is the letter, to prove that I speak 
the truth ; but I need not tell you that I cannot 
make the fortune which was left me by a pious 
friend assist a youth to take on himself the sacred 
profession of a christian minister, who can utter 
falsehoods, in order to betray a fellow-creature into 
folly, utterly regardless of that christian precept, 
c Do unto others as ye would that others should do 
unto you.' " He then took leave of the rest of the 
company, and drove off, leaving the Musgraves 
chagrined and ashamed, and bitterly mortified at 
the loss of the intended patronage to Marmaduke, 
especially when a gentleman present exclaimed, 
"No doubt, this is the Dr. Albany, to whom 
Clewes of Trinity left his large fortune !" 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN* 139 

Albany, taught by his misadventure in this world- 
ly and treacherous family, went, soon after, to the 
abode of another of his college friends, residing 
near Cheltenham. He expected to find this gen- 
tleman and his family in unclouded prosperity ; but 
they were labouring under unexpected adversity, 
brought on them by the villany of others : he found 
them, however, bowed in lcftvly resignation before 
the inscrutable decree. On the pious son of these 
reduced, but contented parents, he, in due time, be- 
stowed the living intended for the treacherous Mar- 
maduke. Under their roof he experienced grati- 
tude which he felt to be sincere, and affection in 
which he dared to confide ; and, ultimately, he 
took up his abode with them, in a residence suited 
to their early prospects and his riches ; for even the 
artless and unsuspecting can, without danger, asso- 
ciate and sojourn with those whose thoughts and 
actions are under the guidance of religious princi- 
ple, and who live in this world as if they every hour 
expected to be summoned away to the judgment 
of a world to come. 



CHAPTER X. 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 



In a former chapter I commented on those lies 
which are, at best, of a mixed nature, and are 
made up of worldly motives, of which fear and 
selfishness compose the principal part although the 



140 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

utterer of them considers them as lies of benevo 

LENCE. 

Lies of real benevolence are, like most other 
falsehoods, various in their species and degrees ; 
but, as they are, however in fact objectionable, the 
most amiable and respectable of all lies, and seem 
so like virtue that they may easily be taken for her 
children ; and as the illustrations of them, which I 
have been enabled to give, are so much more con- 
nected with our tenderest and most solemn feelings, 
than those afforded by other lies ; I thought it right 
that, like the principal figures in a procession, they 
should bring up the rear. 

The lies which relations and friends generally 
think it their duty to tell an unconsciously dying 
person, are prompted by real benevolence, as are 
those which medical men deem themselves justified 
in uttering to a dying patient ; though, if the per 
son dying, or the surrounding friends, be strictly 
religious characters, they must be, on principle, 
desirous that the whole truth should be told.* 



* Richard Pearson, the distinguished author of the Life of 
William Hey of Leeds, says, in that interesting book, p. 261, 
"Mr. Hey's sacred respect for truth, and his regard for the 
welfare of his fellow-creatures, never permited him intention- 
ally to deceive his patients by flattering representations of 
their state of health, by assurances of the existence of no dan- 
ger, when he conceived their situation to be hopeless, or even 
greatly hazardous." u The duty of a medical attendant," con- 
tinues he, " in such delicate situations, has been a subject of 
considerable embarrassment to men of integrity and con- 
science, who view the uttering of a falsehood as a crime, and 
the practice of deceit as repugnant to the spirit of Christianity. 
That a sacrifice of truth may sometimes contribute to the com- 
fort of a patient, and be medicinally beneficial, is not denied ; 
but that a wilful and deliberate falsehood can, in any case, be 
justifiable before God, is a maxim not be lightly admitted. 



LIES OP BENEVOLENCE. 141 

Methinks I hear some of my readers exclaim, 
can any one suppose it a duty to run the risk of 
killing friends or relations, by telling the whole 



The question may be stated thus : Is it justifiable for a man 
deliberately to violate a moral precept of the law of God, 
from a motive of prudence and humanity? If this be affirmed, it 
must be admitted that it would be no less justifiable to infringe 
the laws of his country from similar motives ; and, conse- 
quently, it would be an act of injustice to punish him for such 
a transgression. But, will it be contended, that the divine, 
or even the human legislature, must be subjected to the con- 
trol of this sort of casuistry ? If falsehood, under these cir- 
cumstances, be no crime, then, as no detriment can result from 
uttering it, very little merit can be attached to so light a sa- 
crifice ; whereas, if it were presumed that some guilt were in- 
curred, and that the physician voluntarily exposed himself to 
the danger of future suffering, for the sake of procuring tem- 
porary benefit to riis patient, he would have a high claim 
upon the gratitude of those who derived the advantage. But, 
is it quite clear that pure benevolence commonly suggests-the 
deviation from truth, and that neither the low consideration 
of conciliating favour, nor the view of escaping censure, and 
promoting his own interest, have any share in prompting him 
to adopt the measure he defends ? To assist in this inquiry, 
let a man ask himself whether lie carries this caution, and 
shows this kindness, indiscriminately on all occasions ; being 
as fearful of giving pain, by exciting apprehension in the mind 
of the poor, as of the rich ; of the meanest, as of the most ele- 
vated rank. Suppose it can be shown that these humane false- 
hoods are distributed promiscuously, it may be inquired fur- 
ther, whether, if such a proceeding were a manifest breach of 
a municipal law, exposing the delinquent to suffer a very in- 
convenient and serious punishment, a medical adviser would 
feel himself obliged to expose iiis person or his estate to pe- 
nal consequences, whenever the circumstances of his patient 
should seem to require the intervention of a falsehood. It 
may be presumed, without any breach of charity, that a demur 
would frequently, perhaps generally, be interposed on the oc- 
casion of such a requisition. But, surely, the laws of the 
Moral Governor of the universe are not to be esteemed less 
sacred, and a transgression of them less important in its con- 
sequences, than the violation of a civil statute ; nor ought ths 



142 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

truth ; that is, informing them that they are dying . 
But, if the patients be not really dying, or in dan- 
ger, no risk is incurred ; and if they be near death, 
which is it of most importance to consider ,- — their 
momentary quiet here, or their interests hereafter ? 
Besides, many of those persons who would think 
that, for spiritual reasons merely, a disclosure of 
the truth was improper, and who declare that, on 
suck occasions, falsehood is virtue, and concealment 
humanity, would hold a different language, and act 
differently, were the unconsciously dying person 
one who was known not to have made a will, and 
who had considerable property to dispose of. Then, 
consideration for their own temporal interests, or 
for those of others, would probably make them ad- 
vise or adopt a contrary proceeding. Yet, who 
that seriously reflects can, for a moment, put world- 
ly interests in any comparison with those of a spi- 
ritual nature ? But, perhaps, an undue preference 
of worldly over spiritual interests might not be the 
leading motive to tell the truth in the one case, and 
withhold it in the other. The persons in question 
would probably be influenced by the conviction 
satisfactory to them, but awfully erroneous in my 



fear of God to be less powerful in deterring men from the 
committing of a crime, than the fear of a magistrate. Those 
who contend for the necessity of violating truth, that they 
may benefit their patients, place themselves between two con- 
flicting rules of morality ; their obligation to obey the com- 
mand of God, and their presumed duty to their neighbour : 
or, in other words, they are supposed to be brought by the Di- 
vine Providence into this distressing alternative of necessarily 
•inning against God or injuring their fellow-creatures. When 
a mcral and a positive duty stand opposed to each other, the 
Holy Scriptures have determined that obedience to the for 
»er is to be preserved, before compliance with the latter,'' 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 143 

apprehension, that a death-bed repentance, and 
death-bed supplication, must be wholly unavailing 
for the soul of the departing; that as the sufferer's 
work, for himself, is wholly done, and his fate fixed 
for time and for eternity, it were needless cruelty 
to let him know his end was approaching ; but, 
that as his work for others is not done, if he has 
not made a testamentary disposal of his property, 
it is a duty to urge him to make a will, even at all 
risk to himself. 

My own opinion, which I give with great humili- 
ty, is, that the truth is never to be violated or with- 
held, in order to deceive ; but I know myself to 
be in such a painful minority on this subject, that 
I almost doubt the correctness of my own judg- 
ment. 

I am inclined to think that lies of Benevolence 
are more frequently passive, than active,— are more 
frequently instanced in withholding and conceal- 
ing the truth, than in direct spontaneous lying. 
There is one instance of withholding and conceal- 
ing the truth from motives of mistaken benevo- 
lence, which is so common, and so pernicious, that 
I feel it particularly necessary to hold it up to se- 
vere reprehension. It is withholding or speaking 
only half the truth in giving the character of a 
servant. 

Many persons, from reluctance to injure the in- 
terests even of very unworthy servants, never give 
the whole character unless it be required of them ; 
and then, rather than tell a positive lie, they dis- 
close the whole truth. But are they not lying, that 
is, are they not meaning to deceive, when they with- 
hold the truth ? 



144 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

When I speak to ladies and gentlemen respect- 
ing t*he character of a servant, I of course conclude 
that I am speaking to honourable persons. I there- 
fore expect that they should give me a correct cha- 
racter of the domestic in question ; and should I 
omit to ask whether he, or she, be honest or sober, 
I require that information on these points should be 
given me unreservedly. They must leave me to 
judge whether I will run the risk of hiring a drunk- 
ard, a thief, or a servant otherwise ill-disposed ; 
but they would be dishonourable if they betrayed 
me into receiving into my family, to the risk of my 
domestic peace, or my property, those who are 
addicted to dishonest practices, or are otherwise of 
immoral habits. Besides, what an erroneous and 
bounded benevolence this conduct exhibits ! If it 
be benevolent towards the servant whom I hire, it 
is malevolent towards me, and unjust also. True 
christian kindness is just and impartial in its deal- 
ings, and never serves even a friend at the expense 
of a third person. But, the masters and mistresses, 
whp thus do what thpy call a benevolent action at 
the sacrifice of truth and integrity, often, no doubt, 
find their sin visited on their own heads ; for they 
are not likely to have trust-worthy servants. If 
servants know that, owing to the sinful kindness and 
lax morality of their employers, their faults will not 
receive their proper punishment— that of disclosure, 
— when they are turned away, one of the most 
powerful motives to behave well is removed ; for 
those are not likely to abstain from sin, who are 
sure that they shall sin with impunity. Thus, then, 
the master or mistress who, in mistaken kindness, 
conceals the faults of a single servant, leads the rest 
pf the hou$ehold into the temptation of sinning also j 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 145 

and what is fancied to be benevolent to one, be- 
comes, in its consequences, injurious to many. 

But let us now see what is the probable effect on 
the servants so skreened and befriended? They 
are instantly exposed,, by this withholding of the 
truth, to the perils of temptation. Nothing, per- 
haps, can be more beneficial to culprits, of all de- 
scriptions, than to be allowed to take the immediate 
consequences of their offences, provided those con- 
sequences stop short of death, that most awful of 
punishments, because it cuts the offender off from 
all means of amendment ; therefore it were better 
for the interests of servants, in every point of view, 
to let them abide by the certainty of not getting a 
new place, because they cannot have a character 
from their last : by these means the humane wish 
to punish, in order to save, would be gratified, and, 
consequently, if the truth was always told' on occa- 
sions of this nature, the feelings of real benevo- 
lence would, in the end, be gratified. But, if 
good characters are given with servants, or incom- 
plete characters, that is, if their good qualities are- 
mentioned, and their bad withheld, the consequen- 
ces to the beings so mistakenly befriended may be 
of the most fatal nature ; for, if ignorant of their 
besetting sin, the head of the family cannot guard 
against it, but, unconsciously, may every hour put 
temptations in their w r ay ; while, on the contrary, 
had they been made acquainted with that beset- 
ting sin, they would have taken care never to have 
risked its being called into action. 

But who, it may be asked, would hire servants, 
knowing that they had any " besetting sins ?" 

I trust that there are many who would do this 
from the pious and benevolent motive of saving 
13 



146 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

them from further destruction, especially if peni 
tence had been satisfactorily manifested. 

I will now endeavour to illustrate some of my 
positions by the following story. 



CHAPTER X. CONTINUED. 

MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 

Ann Belson had lived in a respectable mer- 
chant's family, of the name of Melbourne, for many 
years, and had acquitted herself to the satisfaction 
of her employers in the successive capacities of 
nurse, house-maid, and lady's-maid. But it was 
at length discovered that she had long been addict- 
ed to petty pilfering ; and, being emboldened by 
past impunity, she purloined some valuable lace, 
and was detected : but her kind master and mis- 
tress could not prevail on themselves to give up the 
tender nurse of their children to the just rigour of 
the law, and as their children themselves could not 
bear to have " poor Ann sent to gaol," they resolv- 
ed to punish her in no other manner, than by turn- 
ing her away without a character, as the common 
phrase is. But without a character she could not 
procure another service, and might be thus con- 
signed to misery and ruin. This idea was insup- 
portable ! However she might deserve punish- 
ment, they shrunk from inflicting it ! and they re- 
solved to keep Ann Belson themselves, as they 
could not recommend her conscientiously to any 
one else. This was a truly benevolent action ; be- 
cause, if she continued to sin, they alone were ex- 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 147 

posed to suffer from her fault. But they virtuously 
resolved to put no further temptation in her way, 
and to guard her against herself, by unremitting 
vigilance. 

During the four succeeding years, Ann Belson's 
honesty was so entirely without a stain, that her be- 
nevolent friends were convinced that her penitence 
was sincere, and congratulated themselves that 
they had treated her with such lenity. 

At this period the pressure of the times, and 
losses in trade, produced a change in the circuin- 
stances of the Melboumes ; and retrenchment be- 
came necessary. They, therefore, felt it right to 
discharge some of their servants, and particularly 
the lady's maid. 

The grateful Ann would not hear of this dismis- 
sal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, and 
in any situation ; nay, she declared her willingness 
to live with her indulgent friends for nothing ; but, 
as they were too generous to accept her services at 
so great a disadvantage to herself, especially as she 
had poor relations to maintain, they resolved to pro- 
cure her a situation ; and having heard of a very 
advantageous one, for which she was admirably 
calculated, they insisted on her trying to procure it. 

" But what shall we do, my dear," said the wife 
to the husband, "concerning Ann's character? 
Must we tell the whole truth ? As she has been 
uniformly honest during the last four years, should 
we not be justified in concealing her fault?" — 
11 Yes ; I think, at least, I hope so," replied he. 
" Still, as she was dishonest more years than she 

has now been honest, I really .... I it 

is a very puzzling question, Charlotte ; and I am 
but a weak casuist." A strong christian might not 



148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

have felt the point so difficult. But the Mel- 
bournes had not studied serious things deeply ; 
and the result of the consultation was, that Ann 
Belson's past faults should be concealed, if possible. 

And possible it was. Lady Baryton, the young 
and noble bride who wished to hire her, was a 
thoughtless, careless woman of fashion ; and as she 
learned that Ann could make dresses, and dress 
hair to admiration, she made few other inquiries ; 
and Ann was installed in her new place. 

It was, alas ! the most improper of places, even 
for a sincere penitent, like Ann Belson ; for it was 
a place of the most dangerous trust. Jewels, laces, 
ornaments of all kinds, were not only continually 
exposed to her eyes, but placed under her especial 
care. Not those alone. When her lady returned 
home from a run of good luck at loo, a reticule, 
containing bank-notes and sovereigns, was emptied 
into an unlocked drawer ; and Ann x was told how 
fortunate her lady had been. The first time that 
this heedless woman acted thus, the poor Ann beg- 
ged she would lock up her money. " Not I ; it is 
too much trouble ; and why should I ?" " Be- 
cause, my lady, it is not right to leave money about ; 
it may be stolen." " Nonsense ! who should steal 
it ? I know you must be honest ; the Melbournes 
gave you such a high character." Here Ann turn- 
ed away in agony and confusion. " But, my lady, 
the other servants," she resumed in a faint voice. 
" Pray, what business have the other servants at my 
drawers ? However, do you lock up the drawer, 
and keep the key." " No ; keep it yourself, my 
lady." " What, I go about with keys, like a house- 
- keeper ? Take it, I say !" Then flinging the key 
dow r n, she went singing out of the room, little think- 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS, 149 

mg to what peril, temporal and spiritual, she was 
exposing a hapless fellow-creature. 

For some minutes after this new danger had 
opened upon her, Ann sat leaning on her hands, 
absorbed in painful meditation, and communing 
seriously with her own heart ; nay, she even prayed 
for a few moments to be delivered from evil ; but 
the next minute she was ashamed of her own self- 
distrust, and tried to resume her business with her 
usual alacrity. 

A few evenings afterwards, her lady brought her 
reticule home, and gave it to Ann, filled as before. 
" I conclude, my lady, you know how much money 
is in this purse." "I did know ; but I have for- 
gotten." " Then let me tell it." " No, no ; non- 
sense !" she replied, as she left the room ; " lock it 
up, and then it will be safe, you know, as I can 
trust you." Ann sighed deeply, but repeated with- 
in herself, " Yes, yes ; I am certainly now to be 
trusted ;" but, as she said this, she saw two sove- 
reigns on the carpet, which she had dropped out of 
the reticule in emptying it, and had locked the 
drawer without perceiving. Ann felt fluttered 
when she discovered them ; but, taking them up, 
resolutely felt for the key to add them to the others ; 
but the image of her recently widowed sister, and 
her large destitute family, rose before her, and 
she thought she would not return them, but ask her 
lady to give them to the poor widow. But then, 
her lady had already been very bountiful to her, 
and she would not ask her ; however, she would con- 
sider the matter, and it seemed as if it was intended 
she should have the sovereigns ; for they were se- 
parated from the rest, as if for her. Alas ! it would 
have been safer for her to believe that they were 
13* 



130 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

left there as a snare to try her penitence, and her 
faith ; but she took a different view of it ; she pick- 
ed up the gold, then laid it down ; and long and 
severe was the conflict in her heart between good 
and evil. 

We weep over the woes of romance ; w r e shed 
well-motived tears over the sorrows of real life ; 
but, where is the fiction, however highly wrought, 
and where the sorrows, however acute, that can 
deserve our pity and our sympathy so strongly, as 
the agony and conflicts of a penitent, yet tempted 
soul ! — Of a soul that has turned to virtue, but is 
forcibly pulled back again to vice, — that knows its 
own danger, without power to hurry from it ; till, 
fascinated by the glittering bait, as the bird by the 
rattlesnake, it yields to its fatal allurements, regard- 
less of consequences ! It was not without many a 
heartach, many a struggle, that Ann Belson gave 
way to the temptation, and put the gold in her 
pocket ; and when she had done so, she was told 
her sister was ill, and had sent to beg she would 
come to her, late as it was. Accordingly, when 
her lady was in bed, she obtained leave to go to 
her, and while she relieved her sisters wants with 
the tw r o purloined sovereigns, the poor thing almost 
fancied that she had done a good action ! Oh ! 
never is sin so dangerous as when it has allured us 
in the shape of a deed of benevolence. It had so 
allured the Melbournes when they concealed Ann's 
faults from Lady Baryton ; and its bitter fruits 
were only too fast preparing. 

" Ce rtest que le premier pas qui coute ;" says 
the proverb, or " the first step is the only difficult 
one." The next time her lady brought her win- 
nings to her, Ann pursued a new plan : she insisted 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 151 

on telling the money over ; but took care to make 
it less than it was, by two or three pounds. Not 
long after, she told Lady Baryton that she must 
have a new lock put on the drawer that held the 
money, as she had certainly dropped the key some' 
where : and that, before she missed it, some one, 
she was sure, had been trying at the lock ; for it 
was evidently hampered the last time she unlocked 
it. " Well, then, get a new lock," replied her 
careless mistress ; " however, let the drawer be 
forced now ; and then we had better tell over the 
moneys The drawer was forced ; they told the 
money ; and even Lady Baryton was conscious 
that some of it was missing. But, the missing key. 
and hampered lock, exonerated Ann from suspicion ; 
especially as Ann owned that she had discovered 
the loss before ; and declared that, had not her la- 
dy insisted on telling over the money, she had in- 
tended to replace it gradually, because she felt 
herself responsible : while Lady Baryton, satisfied 
and deceived, recommended her to be on the 
watch for the thief ; and soon forgot the whole cir- 
cumstance. 

Lady Baryton thought herself, and perhaps she 
was, a woman of feeling. She never read the Old 
Bailey convictions without mourning over the pri- 
soners condemned to death; and never read an ac- 
count of an execution without shuddering. Still, from 
want of reflection and a high-principled sense of what 
we owe to others, especially to those who are the 
members of our own household, she never for one 
moment troubled herself to remember that she was 
daily throwing temptations in the way of a servant 
to commit the very faults which led those convicts, 
whom she pitied, to the fate which she deplored. 



152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Alas ! what have those persons to answer for, in 
every situation of life, who consider their depen- 
dants and servants merely as such, without remem- 
bering that they are, like themselves, heirs of the 
invisible world to come ; and that, if they take no 
pains to enlighten their minds, in order to save their 
immortal souls, they should, at least, be careful 
never to endanger them. 

In a few weeks after the dialogue given above, 
Lady Baryton bought some strings of pearls at an 
India sale; and having, on her way thence, shown 
them to her jeweller, that he might" count them, 
and see if there were enough to make a pair of 
bracelets, she brought them home, because she 
could not yet afford proper clasps to fasten them ; 
and these were committed to Ann's care. But, as 
Lord Baryton, the next week, gave his lady a pair 
of diamond clasps, she sent the pearls to be made 
up immediately. In the evening, however, the 
jeweller came to tell her that there were two strings 
less than when she brought them before. " Then 
they must have been stolen !" she exclaimed ; " and 
now I remember that Belson told me she was sure 
there was a thief in the house." — "Are you sure," 
said Lord Baryton, " that Belson is not the thief 
herself?" — " Impossible ! I had such a charac- 
ter of her ! and I have trusted her implicitly!" — 
"It is not right to tempt even the most honest," 
replied Lord Baryton ; " but we must have strict 
search made ; and all the servants must be ex- 
amined." 

They were so ; but as Ann Belson was not a 
hardened offender, she soon betrayed herself by 
her evident misery and terror ; and was committed 
to prison on her own full confession ; but she could 



MISTAKEN KINJDKBSS. 153 

not help exclaiming, in the agony of her heart, 
" Oh, my lady ! remember that I conjured you 
not to trust me!" ■ and Lady Bary ton's heart re- 
proached her, at least for some hours. There were 
other hearts also that experienced self-reproach, 
and of a far longer duration ; for the Melbournes, 
when they heard what had happened, saw that the 
seeming benevolence of their concealment had been 
a real injury, and had ruined her whom they meant 
to save. They .saw that, had they told Lady 
Baryton the truth, that lady would either not have 
hired her, in spite of her skill, or she w T ould have 
taken care not to put her in situations calculated to 
tempt her cupidity. But, neither Lady Bary ton's 
regrets, nor self-reproach, nor the greater agonies 
of the Melbournes, could alter or avert the course 
of justice ; and Ann Belson was condemned to 
dearth. She was, however, strongly recommended 
to mercy, both by the jury and the noble prosecu- 
tor ; and her conduct in prison was so exemplary, 
so indicative of the deep contrition of a trembling, 
humble christian, that, at length, the intercession 
was not in vain ; and the Melbournes had the com- 
fort of carrying to her what was to them, at least, 
joyful news ; namely, that her sentence was com- 
muted for transportation. 

Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the 
self-judged Melbournes ; since they had the misery 
of seeing the affectionate nurse of their children, 
the being endeared to them by many years of ac- 
tive services, torn from all the tender ties of ex- 
istence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant 
land ! exiled too for a crime which, had they per- 
formed their social duty, she might never have 
committed. But the pain of mind which they en- 



154 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

dured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown 
away on them, as it awakened them to serious re- 
flection : they learned to remember, and to teach 
their children to remember, the holy command, 
" that we are not to do evil, that good may come ;" 
and that no deviation from truth and ingenuousness 
can be justified, even if it claims for itself the plau- 
sible title of the active or passive lie of bene- 
volence. 

There is another species of withholding the truth, 
which springs from so amiable a source, and is so 
often practised even by pious christians, that, while 
I venture to say it is at variance with reliance on 
the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, I do so with 
reluctant awe. I mean a concealment of the whole 
extent of a calamity from the persons afflicted, lest 
the blow should fall too heavily upon them. 

I would ask, whether such conduct be not incon- 
sistent with the belief that trials are mercies in dis- 
guise ? that the Almighty u loveth those whom he 
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son that he re- 
ceived ?" 

If this assurance be true, we set our own judg- 
ment against that of the Deity, by concealing from 
the sufferer the extent of the trial inflicted : and 
seem to believe ourselves more capable than he is 
to determine the quantity of suffering that is good 
for the person so visited ; and we set up our finite 
against infinite wisdom. 

There are other reasons, besides religious ones, 
why this sort of deceit should no more be practised 
than any other. 

The motive for withholding the whole truth, on 
these occasions, is to do good : but will the desired 
good be effected by this opposition to the Creator's 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 156 

revealed will towards the sufferer ? Is it certain 
that good will be performed at all, or that conceal- 
ment is necessary ? 

What is the reason given for concealing half the 
truth ? Fear, lest the whole would be more than 
the sufferer could bear; which implies that it is al- 
ready mighty, to an awful degree. Then, surely, 
a degree more of suffering, at such a moment, can- 
not possess much added power to destroy ; and if 
the trial be allowed to come in its full force, the 
mind of the victim will make exactly the same ef- 
forts as minds always do when oppressed by misery. 
A state of heavy affliction is so repulsive to the 
feelings, that even in the first paroxysms of it we 
all make efforts to get away from under its weight ; 
and, in proof of this assertion, I ask, whether we 
do not always find the afflicted less cast down than 
we expected ? The religious pray as well as 
weep : the merely moral look around for consola- 
tion here ; and, as a dog, when cast into the sea, as 
soon as he rises and regains his breath, strikes out 
his feet, in order to float securely upon the waves ; 
so, be their sorrows great or small, all persons in- 
stantly strive to find support somewhere ; and they 
do find it, while in proportion to the depth of the 
affliction is often the subsequent rebound. 

I could point out instances (but I shall leave my 
readers to imagine them) in which, by concealing 
from the bereaved sufferers the most affecting part 
of the truth, we stand between them and the balm 
derived from that very incident which was merci- 
fully intended to heal- their wounds. 

I also object to such concealment ; because it 
entails upon those who are guilty of it a series of 
falsehoods; falsehoods too, which are often fruitless- 



156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LtflNG. 

ly uttered ; since the object of them is apt to sus- 
pect deceit, and endure that restless agonizing sus- 
picion, which those who have ever experienced it, 
could never inflict on the objects of their love. 

Besides, religion and reason enable us, in time, 
to bear the calamity of which we know the extent ; 
but we are always on the watch to find out that 
which we only suspect^ and the mind's strength, 
frittered away in vain and varied conjectures, runs 
the risk of sinking beneath the force of its own in- 
distinct fears. 

Confidence, too, in those dear friends whom we 
trusted before, is liable to be entirely destroyed , 
and, in all its bearings, this well-intentioned depart- 
ure from truth is pregnant with mischief. 

Lastly, I object to such concealment, from a 
conviction that its continuance is impossible ; for, 
some time or other, the whole truth is revealed at 
a moment when the sufferers are not so well abk 
to bear it as they were in the first paroxysms oi 

grief. '"-,♦-•. 

In this, my next and last tale, I give another il- 
lustration of those amiable but pernicious lies, the 

LIES OF REAL BENEVOLENCE. 



THE FATHER AND SON. 

" Well, then, thou art willing that Edgar should 
go to a public school," said the vicar of a small 
parish in Westmoreland to his weeping wife. "Quite 
willing." "And yet thou art in tears, Susan?" "1 
weep for hi* faults ; and not because he is to quit 



THE FATHER AND S0&* 157 

us. I grieve to think he Is so disobedient and un- 
ruly that we can manage him at home no longer. 

And yet I loved him so dearly ! so much more than 
." . . ; V? Here her sobs redoubled ; and, as Ver- 
non rested her aching head on his bosom, he said, 
in a low voice, " Aye ; and so did I love him, even 
better than our other children ; and therefore, pro- 
bably, our injustice is thus visited. But, he is so 
clever ! He learned more Latin in a week than 
his brothers in a month !" " And he is so beauti- 
ful /" observed his mother. "And so generous!" 
rejoined his father ; " but, cheer op, my beloved ; 
under stricter discipline than ours he may yet do 
well, and turn, out all we could wish." " I hope, 
however," replied the fond mother, "that his mas- 
ter will not be very severe ; and I will try to look 
forward." As she said this, she left her husband 
with something like comfort 5 for a tender mother's 
hopes for a darling child are easily revived, and she 
went, with recovered calmness, to get her son's 
wardrobe ready against the day of his departure 
The equally afectionate father meanwhile called 
his son into the study, to prepare his mind for that 
parting which his undutifal conduct had made un- 
avoidable. 

But Vernon found that Edgar's mind required 
no preparation ; that the idea of change was de 
lightful to his volatile nature ; and that he panted 
to distinguish himself on a wider field of action than 
a small retired village afforded to his daring, rest- 
less spirit ; while his father saw with agony, which 
he could but ill conceal, that this desire of entering 
into a new situation had power to annihilate all 
regret at leaving the tenderest of parents and the 
companions of his childhood. 
14 



158 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

However, his feelings were a little soothed when 
the parting hour arrrived ; for then the heart of 
Edgar was so melted within him at the sight of his 
mother's tears, and his father's agony, that he ut- 
tered words of tender contrition, such as they had 
never heard from him before ; the recollection of 
which spoke comfort to their minds when they be- 
held him no longer. 

But, short were the hopes which that parting 
hour had excited. In a few months the master of 
the school wrote to complain of the insubordination 
of his new pupil. In his next letter he declared 
that he should soon be under the necessity of ex- 
pelling him ; and Edgar had not been at school six 
months, before he prevented the threatened expul- 
sion, only by running away, no one knew whither ! 
Nor was he heard of by his family for four years ; 
during which time, not even the dutiful affection of 
their other sons, nor their success in life, had power 
to heal the breaking heart of the mother, nor 
cheer the depressed spirits of the father. At length 
the prodigal returned, ill, meagre, pennyless, and 
penitent ; and was received, and forgiven. " But 
where hast thou been, my child, this long, long 
time ?" said his mother, tenderly weeping, as she 
gazed on his pale sunk cheek. "Ask me no 
questions ! I am here ; that is enough," Edgar 
Vernon replied, shuddering as he spake. " It is 
enough !" cried his mother, throwing herself on his 
neck ! " For this, my son, was dead, and is alive 
again ; was lost, and is found !" But the father felt 
and thought differently : he knew that it was his 
duty to interrogate his son ; and he resolved to in- 
sist on knowing where and how those long four 
years had been passed. He, however, delayed his 



THE FATHER AND SON. 159 

questions till Edgar's health was re-established : but 
when that time arrived, he told him that he ex- 
pected to know all that had befallen him since he 
ran away from school. " Spare me till to-morrow, 1 ' 
said Edgar Vernon, " and then you shall know a!]." 
His father acquiesced ; but the next morning E 1 
gar had disappeared, leaving the following letter 
behind him : 

" I cannot, dare not, tell you what a wretch I 
have been ! though I own your right to demand 
such a confession from me. Therefore, I must be- 
come a wanderer again ! Pray for me, dearest and 
tenderest of mothers ! Pray for me, best of fathers 
and of men ! I dare not pray for myself, for I am 
a vile and wretched sinner, though your grateful 
and affectionate son, E. V." 

Though this letter nearly drove the mother to 
distraction, it contained for the father a degree of 
soothing comfort. She dwelt only on the convic- 
tion which it held out to her, that she should pro- 
bably never behold her son again ; but he dwelt 
with pious thankfulness on the sense of his guilt, 
expressed by the unhappy writer ; trusting that the 
sinner who knows and owns himself to be " vile," 
may, when it is least expected of him, repent and 
amend. 

How had those four years been passed by Edgar 
Vernon ? That important period of a boy's life, 
the years from fourteen to eighteen? Suffice it 
that, under a feigned name, in order that he might 
not be traced, he had entered on board a merchant 
ship ; that he had left it after he had made one 
voyage ; that he was taken into the service of what 
is called a sporting character, whom he had met 
on board ship, who saw that Edgar had talents and 



160 ILLUSTRATIONS ©r LYItf«. 

spirit which he might render serviceable to his own 
pursuits. This man, finding he was the son of a 
gentleman, treated him as such, and initiated him 
gradually into the various arts of gambling, and the 
vices of the metropolis ; but one night they were 
both surprised by the officers of justice at a noted 
gaming-house ; and, after a desperate scuffle, Ed- 
gar escaped wounded, and nearly killed, to a house 
in the suburbs. There he remained till he was safe 
from pursuit, and then, believing himself in danger 
of dying, he longed for the comfort of his paternal 
roof; he also longed for paternal forgiveness ; and 
the prodigal returned to his forgiving parents. 

But, as this was a tale which Edgar might well 
shrink from relating to a pure and pious father, flight 
w T as far easier than such a confession. Still, " so 
deceitful is the human heart, and desperately wick- 
ed," that I believe Edgar was beginning to feel the 
monotony of his life at home, and therefore was 
glad of an excuse to justify to himself his desire to 
escape into scenes more congenial to his habits, 
and now perverted nature. His father, however, 
continued to hope for his reformation, and was 
therefore little prepared for the next intelligence of 
ftis son, w T hich reached him through a private chan- 
nel. A friend wrote to inform him that Edgar was 
taken up for having passed forged notes, knowing 
them to be forgeries ; that he would soon be fully 
committed to prison for trial ; and would be tried 
with his accomplices at the ensuing assizes for 
Middlesex. 

At first, even the firmness of Vernon yielded to 
the stroke, and he was bowed low to the earth. 
But the confiding christian struggled against the 
sorrows of the suffering father, and overcame them ; 



THE FATHER AND SON. 161 

till, at last, he was able to exclaim, " I will go to 
him ! I will be near him at his trial ! I will be 
near him even at his death, if death be his portion! 
And no doubt, I shall be permitted to awaken him 
to a sense of his guilt. Yes, I may be permitted to 
see him expire contrite before God and man, and 
calling on his name who is able to save to the utter- 
most !" But, just as he was setting off for Mid- 
dlesex, his wife, who had long been declining, was, 
to all appearance, so much worse, that he could not 
leave her. She having had suspicions that all was 
not right with Edgar, contrived to discover the 
truth, which had been kindly, but erroneously, 
concealed from her, and had sunk under the sud- 
den, unmitigated blow ; and the welcome intelli- 
gence, that the prosecutor had withdrawn the charge, 
came at a moment when the sorrows of the be- 
reaved husband had closed the father's heart 
against the voice of gladness. 

" This news came too late to save the poor vic- 
tim !" he exclaimed, as he knelt beside the corpse 
of her whom he had loved so long and so tender- 
ly ; " and I feel that I cannot, cannot yet rejoice in 
it as I ought." But he soon repented of this un- 
grateful return to the mercy of Heaven ; and, even 
before the body was consigned to the grave, he 
thankfully acknowledged that the liberation of his 
son was a ray amidst the gloom that surround- 
ed him. 

Meanwhile, Edgar Vernon, when unexpectedly 
liberated from what he knew to be certain danger 
to his life, resolved on the ground of having been 
falsely taken up, and as an innocent injured man, 
to visit his parents ; for he had heard of his mother's 
illness ; and his heart yearned to behold her once 
14* 



s 



162 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

more. But it was only in the dark hour that he 
dared venture to approach his home : and it was 
his intention to discover himself at first to his 
mother only. 

Accordingly, the gray parsonage was scarcely 
visible in the shadows of twilight, when he reached 
the gate that led to the back door ; at which he 
gently knocked, but in vain. No one answered his 
mock; all was still within and around. What 
could this mean ? He then walked round the 
house, and looked in at the window ; all there was 
dark and quiet as the grave ; but the church bell 
was tolling, while alarmed, awed, and overpower- 
ed, he leaned against the gate. It this moment 
he saw two men rapidly pass along the road, say- 
ing, "1 fear we shall be too late for the funeral ! I 
wonder how the poor old man will bear it ! for he 
loved his wife dearly!" — "Aye; and so he did that 
wicked boy, who lias been the death of her ;" re- 
plied the other. 

These words shot like an arrow through the 
not yet callous heart of Edgar Vernon, and, 
throwing himself on the ground, he groaned 
aloud in his agony ; but the next minute, with 
the speed of desperation, he ran towards the 
church, and reached it just as the service was 
over, the mourners departing, and as his father 
was borne away, nearly insensible, on the arms of 
his virtuous sons. 

At such a moment Edgar was able to enter the 
church unheeded ; for all eyes were on his afflict- 
ed parent ; and the self-convicted culprit dared not 
force himself, at a time like that, on the notice of 
the father whom he had so grievously injured. 
But his poor bursting heart felt that it must vent 



THE FATHER AND SOI*. J 63 

its agony, or break ; and, ere the coffin was lower- 
ed into the vault, he rushed forward, and, throw- 
ing himself across It, called upon diis mothers 
name, in an accent so piteous and appalling, that 
the assistants, though they did not recognize him 
at first, were enable to drive him away ; so awed, 
so affected, were they by the agony which they 
witnessed. 

At length he rose up and endeavoured to speak, 
but in vain ; then, holding his clenched fists to his 
forehead, he screamed out, " Heaven preserve my 
senses !" and rushed from the church with ail the 
speed of desperation. But whither should he turn 
those desperate steps ? He longed, earnestly long- 
ed, to go and humble himself before his father, 
and implore that pardon for which his agonized 
soul pined. But, alas! earthly pride forbade him 
to indulge the salutary feeling ; for he knew his 
worthy, unoffending brothers, were in the house, 
and he could not endure the mortification of en- 
countering those whose virtues must be put in com- 
parison with his vices. He therefore cast one long 
lingering look at the abode of his childhood, and 
fled forever from the house of mourning, humilia- 
tion, and safety. 

In a few days, however* he wrote to his father, 
detailing his reasons for visiting home, aiid all the 
agonies which he had experienced during his short 
stay. Full of consolation was this letter to that 
bereaved and mourning heart ! for to him it seem- 
ed the language of contrition ; and he lamented 
that his beloved wijp was not alive, to share in the 
hope which it gave him. " Would that he had 
Gome, or would notv come to me!" he exclaimed ; 
but the letter had no date ; and he knew not whi- 



164 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ther to send an invitation. But where was ho, and 
what was he, at that period ? In gambling-houses, 
at cock-fights, sparring-matches, fairs, and in every 
scene where profligacy prevailed the most ; while 
at all these places he had a pre-eminence in skill, 
which endeared these pursuits to him, and made 
his occasional contrition powerless to influence him 
to amendment of life. He therefore continued to 
disregard the warning voice within him ; till at 
length it was no longer heeded. 

One night, when on his way to Y , where 

races were to succeed the assizes, which had just 
commenced, he stopped at an inn, to refresh his 
horse ; and, being hot with riding, and depressed 
by some recent losses at play, he drank very freely 
of the spirits which he had ordered. At this mo- 
ment he saw a school-fellow of his in the bar, 

who, like himself, was on his way to Y . This 

young man was of a coarse, unfeeling nature ; and 
having had a fortune left him, was full of the con- 
sequence of newly-acquired wealth. 

Therefore when Edgar Vernon impulsively ap- 
proached him, and, putting his hand out, asked how 
he did, Dunham haughtily drew back, put his 
hands behind him, and, in the hearing of several 
persons, replied, " I do not know you, sir !" — 
" Not knoxo me, Dunham ?" cried Edgar Vernon, 
turning very pale. " That is to say, I do not 
choose to know you." "And why not?" cried 
Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look of menace. 
" Because .... because .... I do not choose 
to know a man who murdered his mother." 
" Murdered his mother !" cried the by-standers, 
holding up their hands, and regarding Edgar Ver- 
non with a look of horror. " Wretch !" cried he. 



THE FATHER AND SON, 165 

seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp, " explain 
yourself this moment, or" . . . .— "Then take 

your fingers from my throat !" Edgar did so ; 
and Dunham, said, " I meant only that you broke 
your mother's heart by your ill conduct ; and 
pray, was not that murdering her?" While he 
was saying this, Edgar Yernon stood with folded 
arms, rolling his eyes wildly from one of the by- 
standers to the other ; and seeing, as he believed, 
disgust towards him in 'Cne countenances of them 
all. When Dunham had finished speaking, Edgar 
Vernon wrung his hands in agony, saying, u true, 
most true, I ama murderer ! I am a parricide !" 
Then, suddenly drinking off a large glass of brandy 
near him, he quitted the room, and, mounting his 
horse, rode off at full speed. Aim and object in 
view, he had none ; he was only trying to ride from 
himself; trying to escape from those looks of hor- 
ror and aversion which the remarks of Dunham 
had provoked* But what right had Dunham so to 
provoke him 'I 

After he had put this question to himself, the 
image of Dunham, scornfully rejecting him his 
hand, alone took possession of his remembrance, 
till he thirsted for revenge ; and the irritation of the 
moment urged him to seek it immediately. 

The opportunity, as he rightly suspected, was 
in his power ; Dunham would soon be. coming that 

way on his road to Y- ; and he would meet 

him. He did so ; and, riding up to him, seized 
the bridle of his horse, exclaiming, " you have 
called me a murderer, Dunham ; and you were 
right ; for, though I loved my mother dearly, and 
would have died for her, I killed her by my wicked 
course of life !" " Weil, well ; I know that" re- 



166 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

plied Dunham, " so let me go ! for I tell you I do 
not like to be seen with such as you. Let me go, 
I say !" 

He did let him go ; but it was as the tiger lets 
go its prey, to spring on it again. A blow from 
Edgar's nervous arm knocked the rash insulter 
from his horse. In another minute Dunham lay on 
the road a bleeding corpse ; and the next morning 
officers were out in pursuit of the murderer. That 
wretched man was soon found, and soon secured. 
Indeed, he had not desired to avoid pursuit ; but, 
when the irritation of drunkenness and revenge had 
subsided, the agony of remorse took possession of 
his soul ; and he confessed his crime with tears of 
the bitterest penitence. To be brief : Edgar Ver- 
non was carried into that city as a manacled crimi- 
nal, which he had expected to leave as a successful 
gambler; and, before the end of the assizes, he 
was condemned to death. 

He made a full confession of his guilt before the 
judge pronounced condemnation; gave a brief 
statement of the provocation which he received 
from the deceased ; blaming himself at the same 
time for hi3 criminal revenge, in so heart rending a 
manner, and lamenting so pathetically the disgrace 
and misery in which he had involved his father and 
family, that every heart was melted to compassion : 
and the judge wept, while he passed on him the 
awful sentence of the law. 

His conduct in prison was so exemplary, that it 
proved he had not forgotten his father's precepts, 
though he had not acted upon them ; and his bro- 
thers, for whom he sent, found him in a state of 
mind which afforded them the only and best conso- 
lation. This contrite, lowly, christian state of mind 



THE FATHER AND SON. 167 

accompanied him to the awful end of his existence ; 
and it might be justly said of him, that " nothing 
in his life became him like the losing it." 

Painful, indeed, was the anxiety of Edgar and 
his brothers, lest their father should learn this hor- 
rible circumstance : but as the culprit was arraign- 
ed under a feigned name, and as the crime, trial, 
and execution, had taken, and would take up, so 
short a period of time, they flattered themselves 
that he would never learn how and where Edgar 
died ; but would implicitly believe what was told 
him. They therefore wrote him word that Edgar 
had been taken ill at an inn, near London, on his 
road home; that he had sent for them; and they 
had little hopes of his recovery. They followed 
this letter of benevolent lies as soon as they 
could, to inform him that all was over. 

This plan was wholly disapproved by a friend of 
the family, who, on principle, thought all conceal- 
ment wrong ; and, probably, useless too. 

When the brothers drove to his house, on their 
way home, he said to them, " I found your father 
in a state of deep submission to the divine will, 
though grieved at the loss of a child, whom not 
even his errors could drive from his affections. I 
also found him consoled by those expressions of 
filial love and reliance on the merits of his Re- 
deemer, which you transmitted to him from Edgar 
himself. Now, as the poor youth died penitent, 
and as his crime was palliated by great provoca- 
tion, I conceive that it would not add much to 
your father's distress, were he to be informed of the 
truth. You know that, from a principle of obedi- 
ence to the implied designs of Providence, I object 
to any concealment on such occasions, but on this, 



168 ILLUSTRATIONS 0$ LYING, 

disclosure would certainly be a safer, as well as a 
more proper, mode of proceeding ; for, though he 
does not read newspapers, he may one day learn 
the fact as it is ; and then the consequence may be 
fatal to life or reason. Remeftibef how ill con- 
cealment answered in your poor mother's case." 
But he argued in vain. However, he obtained 
leave to go with them to their father, that he might 
judge of the possibility of making the disclosure 
which he advised. 

They found the poor old man leaning his head 
upon an open Bible, as though he had been pray- 
ing over it. The sight of his sons in mourning told 
the tale which he dreaded to hear ; and, wringing 
their hands in silence, lie left the room, but soon 
returned ; and with surprising composure, said, 
" Well ; now I can bear to hear particulars.'' 
When they had told him all they chose to relate, 
he exclaimed, melting into tears, ;; Enough ! — 
Oh, my dear sons and dear friend, it is a sad and 
grievous thing for a father to own ; but I feel this 
sorrow to be a blessing ! I had always feared that 
he would die a violent death, either by his own 
hand, or that of the executioner ; (here the sons 
looked triumphantly at each other';) therefore, his 
dying a penitent, and with humble christian reli- 
ance, is stick a relief to my mind! Yes ; I feared 
he might commit forgery, or even murder ; and that 
would have been dreadful !" " Dreadful, indeed!" 
faltered out both the brothers, bursting into tears ; 
while Osborne, choked, and almost convinced, 
turned to the window. "Yet," added he, " even 
in that case, if he had died penitent, I trust that I 
could have borne the blow, and been able to be- 
lieve the soul of my unhappy boy would find mer- 



THE FATHER AND SON, 169 

cy !" Here Osborne eagerly turned round, and 
would have ventured to tell the truth; but was 
withheld by the frowns of his companions, and the 
truth was not told. 

Edgar had not been dead above seven months, 
before a visible change took place in his father's 
spirits, and expression of countenance ; — for the 
constant dread of his child's coming to a terrible 
end had hitherto preyed on his mind, and render- 
ed his appearance haggard ; but now he looked, 
and was cheerful ; therefore his sons rejoiced, when- 
ever they visited him, that they had not taken Os- 
borne's advice, "You are wrong," said he, " he 
would have been just as well, if he had known the 
manner of Edgar's death. It is not his ignorance, 
but the cessation of anxious suspense, that has thus 
renovated him. However, he may go in this igno- 
rance to his grave ; and I earnestly hope he will 
do so." — i; Amen," said one of his sons ; " for his 
life is most precious to our children, as well as to 
us. Our little boys are improving so fast under his 
tuition !" 

The consciousness of recovering health, as a 
painful affection ofihe breast and heart had great- 
ly subsided since the death of Edgar, made the 
good old man wish to visit, during the summer 
months, an old college friend, who lived in York- 
shire ; and he communicated his intentions to his 
sons. But they highly disapproved them, because, 
though Edgar's dreadful death was not likely to 

be revealed to him in the little village of R , it 

might be disclosed to him by some one or other 
during a long journey. 

However, as he was bent on going, they could 
not find a sufficient excuse for preventing it ; but 
16 



170 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

they took every precaution possible. They wrote 
to their father's intended host, desiring him to keep 
all papers and magazines for the last seven months 
out of his way ; and when the day of his departure 
arrived, Osborne himself went to take a place for 
him ; and took care it should be in that coach 
which did not stop at, or go through York, in order 
to obviate all possible chance of his hearing the 
murder discussed. But it so happened that a fami- 
ly, going from the town whence the coach started, 
wanted the whole of it ; and, without leave, Ver- 
non's place was transferred to the other coach, 
which went the very road Osborne disapproved. 
" Well, well ; it is the same thing to me," said the 
good old man, when he was informed of the 
change ; and he set off, full of pious thankfulness 
for the affectionate conduct and regrets of his pa- 
rishioners at the moment of his departure, as they 
lined the road along which the coach was to pass, 
and expressed even clamorously their wishes for 
his return. 

The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of 
York ; and as Vernon was not disposed to eat any 
dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to 
a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered the 
church-yard to read, as was his custom, the inscrip- 
tions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, he 
saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and en- 
tered into conversation with him. He found it was 
the sexton himself ; and he drew from him several 
anecdotes of the persons interred around them. 

During this conversation they had walked over 
the whole of the ground, when, just as they were 
going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck 
some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, 



THE FATHER AND SON. 171 

and Vernon stopped also ; taking hold, as lie did 
so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the 
corner itself. 

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw 
where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and 
said, " I planted that willow ; and it is on a grave, 
though the grave is not marked out."—" Indeed !" 
— "Yes ; it is the grave of a murderer," — "Of a 
murderer !" — echoed Vernon, instinctively shud- 
dering and moving away from it. — " Yes," resu- 
med he, " of a murderer who was hanged at York. 
Poor lad ! it was very right that he should be hang- 
ed ; but he was not a hardened villain ! and he died 
so penitent ! and, as I knew him when he used to visit 
where I was groom, I could not help planting this 
tree^ for old acquaintance's sake." Here he drew 
his hand across his eyes. " Then he was not a 
low-born man."—" Oh no ; his father was a cler- 
gyman, I think." — "-Indeed! poor man: was he 
living at the time?" said Vernon, deeply sighing. 
" Oh, yes ; for his poor son did so fret, lest his 
father should ever know what he had done ; for he 
said he had an angel upon earth ; and he could not 
bear to think how he would grieve ; for, poor lad, 
he loved his father and his mother too, though he 
did so badly. " — "Is his mother living ?" — "No: 
if she was, lie would have been alive; but his evil 
courses broke her heart ; and it was because the 
man he killed reproached him for having murdered 
his mother, that he was provoked to murder him." 
— ■ " Poor, rash, mistaken youth ! then he had pro- 
vocation." — " Oh, yes ; the greatest : but he was 
very sorry for what he had done ; and it would 
have broken your heart to hear him talk of his poor 
father." — " I am glad I did not hear him," said 



172 ILLUSTRATIONS ©F LYING. 

Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice, (for he 
thought of Edgar.) " And yet, sir, it would have 
done your heart good too.'" — " Then he had virtu- 
ous feelings, and loved his father amidst all his er- 
rors ;" — " Aye." — w And I dare say his father lo- 
ved him, in spite of his faults." — " I dare say he 
did," replied the man ; "for one's children are our 
own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is 
said and done ; and may be this young fellow was 
spoiled in the bringing up." — " Perhaps so," said 
Vernon, sighing deeply. " However, this poor lad 
made a very good end." — " I am glad of that! and 
he lies here," continued Vernon, gazing on the 
spot with deepening interest, and moving nearer to 
it as he spoke. "Peace be to his soul! but was 
he not dissected?" — "Yes; but his brothers got 
leave to have the* body after dissection. They 
came to me : and we buried it privately at night." 
— " His brothers came ! and who were his bro- 
thers?" — " Merchants, in London; and it was a 
sad cut on them ; but they took care that their 
father should not know it." — "No!" cried Ver- 
non, turning sick at heart. " Oh no ; they wrote 
him word that his son was ill ; then went to 
"Westmoreland, and " — " Tell me," inter- 
rupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his 
hand on his arm, " tell me the name of this poor 
youth !" — " Why, he was tried under a false name, 
for the sake of his family ; but his real name was 
Edgar Vernon." 

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered vio- 
lently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven 
at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal 
and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure 
spot which covered the bones of his son, threw 



PRACTICAL LIES. 173 

himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as 
if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, 
while his head rested on the grass, and he neither 
spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan : 
then all was stillness ! 

His terrified and astonished companion remain- 
ed motionless for a few moments, — then stooped to 
raise him ; but the fiat of mercy had gone forth, 
and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, 
had suffered, and breathed its last. 



CHAPTER XL 



LIES OF WANTONNESS 



I come now to lies of wantonness; that is, 
lies told from no other motive but a love of lying, 
and to show the utterer's total contempt of truth, 
and for those scrupulous persons of their acquain- 
tance who look on it with reverence, and endea- 
vour to act up to their principles : lies, having their 
origin merely in a depraved fondness for speaking 
and inventing falsehood. Not that persons of this 
description confine their falsehoods to this sort of 
lying : on the contrary, they lie after this fashion, 
because they have exhausted the strongly-motived 
and more natural sorts of lying. In such as these, 
there is no more hope of amendment than there is 
for the man of intemperate habits, who has ex- 
hausted life of its pleasures, and his constitution of 
its energy. Such persons must go despised and 
(terrible state of human degradation !) untrusted, 
unbelieved, into their graves. 
15* 



174 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Practical lies come last on my list ; lies not 
uttered, but acted ; and dress will furnish me 
with most of my illustration??. 

It has been said that the great art of dress is to 
conceal defects end heighten beauties; there- 
fore, as concealment is deception, this great art of 
dress is founded on falsehood : but, certainly, in 
some instances, on falsehood, comparatively, of an 
innocent kind. 

If the false hair be so Worn, that no one can fan- 
cy it natural ; if the bloom on the cheek is such, 
that it cannot, be mistaken for nature ; or, if the 
person who t; conceals defects, and heightens 
beauties^' 6j the practice, then is the 

deception annihilated. Bat, if the cheek be so art- 
fully tinted, that its hue is mistaken for natural co- 
lour ; if the fuse hair be so skilfully woven, that it 
passes for natural hair ; if the crooked person, or 
meagre form, be so cunningly assisted by dress, 
that the uneven shoulder disappears, and becoming 
fulness succeeds to unbecoming thinness, while the 
man or woman thus assisted by art expects their 
charm will be imputed to nature alone ; then these 
aids of dress partake of the nature of other lying, 
and become equally vicious in the eyes of the re- 
ligious and the moral. 

I have said, the man or woman so assisted by 
art : and I believe that, by including the stronger 
sex in the above observation, I have only been 
strictly just. 

¥/hile men hide baldness by gluing a piece of 
false hair on their heads, meaning that it should 
pass for their own, and while a false calf gives mus- 
cular beauty to a shapeless leg, can the observer 
on human life do otherwise than include the wiser 



PRACTICAL LIES. 175 

sex in the list of those who indulge in the permitted 
artifices and mysteries of the toilet ? AT ay ; bolder 
still are the advances of some men into its sacred 
mysteries. I have ^een the eyebrows, even of 
the young, darkened by the hand of art, and their 
cheeks reddened by its touch ; and who has not 
seen in Bond-street, or the Drive, during the last 
twenty or thirty years, certain notorious men of 
fashion glowing in immortal bloom, and rivalling 
the dashing belle beside them ? 

As the foregoing observations on the practical 
lies of dress, have been mistaken by many, 
and have exposed me to severe, (and I think I 
may add,) unjust animadversions, I take the op- 
portunity afforded me by a second edition, to say 
a few words in explanation of them. 

I do not wish to censure any one for having re 
course to art to hide the defects of nature ; and, I 
have expressly said, that such practices are com- 
paratively innocent: but, it seems to me, that they 
cease to be innocent, and become passive and prac 
tical lies also, if, when men and women hear the 
fineness of their complexion, hair, or teeth, com- 
mended in their presence, they do not own that the 
beauty so commended is entirely artificial, provi- 
ded such be really the case. But, 

I am far from advising any one to be guilty of the 
unnecessary egotism of volunteering such an assu- 
rance ; all I contend for is, that when we are prai- 
sed for qualities, whether of mind or person, which 
we do not possess, we are guilty of passive, if not 
of practical lying, if we do not disclaim our right 
to the encomium bestowed. 

The following also are practical lies of every 
day's experience. 



176 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

Wearing paste for diamonds, intending that the 
false should be taken for the true ; and purchasing 
brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intending 
that they^should pass for real ones. Passing off 
gooseberry-wine at dinner for real Champaigne, 
and English liqueurs for foreign ones. But, on 
these occasions, the motive is not always the mean 
and contemptible wish of imposing on the credulity 
of others ; but it has sometimes its source in a dan- 
gerous as well as deceptive ambition, that of ma- 
king an appearance beyond what the circumstances 
of the persons so deceiving really warrant ; the 
wish to be supposed to be more opulent than they re- 
ally ars ; that most common of all the practical lies ; 
as ruin and bankruptcy follow in its train. The 
lady who purchases and wears paste, which she 
hopes will pass for diamonds, is usually one who 
has no right to wear jewels at all ; and the gentle- 
man who passes off gooseberry-wine for Cham- 
paigne is, in all probability, aiming at a style of 
living beyond his situation in society. 

On some occasions, however, when ladies sub- 
stitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a 
tale of greater error still. I mean, when ladies 
wear mock for real jewels, because their extrava- 
gance has obliged them to raise money on the lat- 
ter ; and they are therefore constrained to keep up 
the appearance of their necessary and accustomed 
splendour, by a practical lie. 

The following is another of the practical lies 
in common use. 

The medical man, who desires his servant to call 
him out of church, or from a party, in order to give 
him the appearance of the great business which he 
has not, is guilty not of uttering, but of acting a 



PRACTICAL LIES. 177 

falsehood; and the author also, who makes his 
publisher put second and third editions before a 
work, of which, perhaps, not even the first edition 
is sold. 

But, the most fatal to the interests of others, 
though perhaps the most pitiable of practical lies, 
are those acted by men who, though they know 
themselves to be in the gulf of bankruptcy, either 
from wishing to put off the evil day, or from the 
visionary hope that something will occur unexpect- 
edly to save them, launch out into increased splen- 
dour of living, in order to obtain further credit, 
and induce their acquaintances to intrust their 
money to them. 

There is, however, one practical lie more fatal 
still, in my opinion ; because it is the practice of 
schools, and consequently the sin of early life ; — 
a period of existence in which it is desirable, both 
for general and individual good, that habits of 
truth and integrity should be acquired, and strictly 
adhered to. I mean the pernicious custom which 
prevails amongst boys, and probably girls, of get- 
ting their school-fellows to do their exercises for 
them, or consenting to do the same office for 
others. 

Some will say, c; but it would be so ill-natured to 
refuse to write one's school-fellows' exercises, espe- 
cially when one is convinced that they cannot 
write them for themselves.'" But, leaving the 
question of truth and falsehood unargued a while, 
let us examine coolly that of the probable good or 
evil done to the parties obliged. 

What are children sent to school for ? — to learn. 
And when there, what are the motives which are 
to make them learn '( dread of punishment, and 



178 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

hope of distinction and reward. There are few 
children so stupid, as not to be led on to industry 
by one or both of these motives, however indolent 
they may be ; but, if these motives be not allowed 
their proper scope of action, the stupid boy will 
never take the trouble to learn, if he finds that he 
can avoid punishment, and gain reward, by prevail- 
ing on some more diligent boy to do his exercises 
for him. Those, therefore, who thus indulge their 
school-fellows, do it at the expense of their future 
welfare, and are in reality foes where they fancied 
themselves friends. But, generally speaking, they 
have not even this excuse for their pernicious com- 
pliance, since it springs from want of sufficient firm- 
ness to say no, — and deny an earnest request at the 
command of principle. But, to such I would put 
this question : — " Which is the real friend to a child, 
the person who gives the sweetmeats which it 
asks for, at the risk of making it ill, merely because 
it were so hard to refuse the dear little thing ; or 
the person who, considering only the interest and 
health of the child, resists its importunities, though 
grieved to deny its request ? No doubt that they 
would give the palm of real kindness, real good na- 
ture, to the latter; and in like manner, the boy who 
refuses to do his school-fellow's task is more truly 
kind, more truly good natured to him, than he who, 
by indulging his indolence, runs the risk of making 
him a dunce for life. 

But some may reply, " It would make one odi 
ous in the school, were one to refuse this common 
compliance with the wants and wishes of one's 
companions. " Not if the refusal were declared to 
be the result of principle, and every aid not contra- 
ry to it were offered and afforded ; and there are 






PRACTICAL LIES* 179 

many ways in which school-fellows may assist each 
other, without any violation of truth, and without 
sharing with them in the practical lie, by impo- 
sing on their masters, as theirs, lessons which they 
never wrote. 

This common practice in schools is a practical 
lie of considerable importance, from its frequen- 
cy ; and because, as I before observed, the result 
of it is, that the first step w r hich a child sets in a 
school is into the midst of deceit — tolerated, che- 
rished deceit For, if children are quick at learn- 
ing, they are called upon immediately to enable 
others to deceive ; and, if dull, they are enabled to 
appear in borrowed plumes themselves. 

How often have I heard men in mature life say, 
" Oh ! I knew such a one at school ; he was a 
very good fellow, but so dull ! I have often done 
his exercises for him." Or, I have heard the con- 
trary asserted. " Such a one was a very clever 
boy at school indeed ; he has done many an exer- 
cise for me ; for he was very good naturcd" And 
in neither case was the speaker conscious that he 
had been guilty of the meanness of deception him- 
self, or been accessary to it in another. 

Parents also correct their children's exercises, 
and thereby enable them to put a deceit on the 
master ; not only by this means convincing their 
offspring of their own total disregard of truth, a 
conviction doubtless most pernicious in its effects 
on their young minds ; but as full of folly as it is of 
laxity of principle, since the deceit cannot fail of 
being detected, whenever the parents are not at 
hand to afford their assistance. 

But, is it necessary that this school delinquency 
should exist ! Is it not advisable that children 



180 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

should learn the rudiments of truth, rather than 
falsehood^ with those of their mother tongue and the 
classics ? Surely masters and mistresses should 
watch over the morals, while improving the minds 
of youth. Surely parents ought to be tremblingly 
solicitous that their children should always speak 
truth, and be corrected by their preceptors for ut- 
tering falsehood. Yet, of what use could it be to 
correct a child for telling a spontaneous lie, on the 
impulse of strong temptation, if that child be in the 
daily habit of deceiving his master on system, and 
of assisting others to do so ! While the present 
practice with regard to exercise-making exists ; 
while boys and girls go up to their preceptors with 
lies in their hands, whence, sometimes, no doubt, 
they are transferred to their lips ; every hope that 
truth will be taught in schools, as a necessary mo- 
ral duty, must be totally, and for ever, annihilated. 



CHAPTER XII. 

OUR OWN EXPERIENCE ON THE PAINFUL RESULTS 
OF LYING. 

I cannot point out the mischievous nature and 
impolicy of lying better than by referring my read- 
ers to their own experience. Which of them does 
not know some few persons, at least, from whose 
habitual disregard of truth they have often suffer- 
ed ; and with whom they find intimacy unpleasant, 
as well as unsafe ; because confidence, that charm 
and cement of intimacy, is wholly wanting in the 
intercourse ? Which of my reader* is not «ome* 



painwl kesults op Lyme. 181 

times obliged to say, " I ought to add, that my au- 
thority for what I have just related, is only Mr. and 
Mrs. such-a-one, or a certain young lady, or a cer- 
tain young gentleman ; therefore, you know what 
credit is to be given to it." 

It has been asserted, that every town and village 
has its idiot ; and, with equal truth, probably, it 
may be advanced, that every one's circle of ac- 
quaintances contains one or more persons known to 
be habitual liars, and always mentioned as such. I 
may be asked, " if this be so, of what consequence 
is it ? And how is it mischievous I If such per- 
sons are known and chronicled as liars, they can 
deceive no one, and, therefore, can do no harm." 
But this is not true : we are not always on our 
guard, either against our own weakness, or against 
that of others ; and if the most notorious liar tells 
us something which we wish to believe, our wise 
resolution never to credit or repeat what he has 
told us, fades before our desire to confide in him 
on this occasion. Thus, even in spite of caution, 
we become the agents of his falsehood ; and, though 
lovers of truth, are the assistants of lying. 

Nor are there many of my readers, I venture to 
pronounce, who have not at some time or other 
of their lives, had cause to lament some violation of 
truth, of which they themselves were guilty, and 
which, at the time, they considered as wise, or posi- 
tively unavoidable. 

But the greatest proof of the impolicy even of 
occasional lying is, that it exposes one to the dan- 
ger of never being believed in future. It is difficult 
to give implicit credence to those who have once 
deceived us ; when they did so deceive, they were 
governed by a motive sufficiently powerful to over- 
16 



182 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

come their regard for truth ; and how can one 
ever be sure, that equal temptation is not always 
present, and always overcoming them ? 

Admitting, that perpetual distrust attends on 
those who are known to be frequent violators of 
truth, it seems to me that the liar is, as if he was 
not. He is, as it were, annihilated for all the im- 
portant purposes of life. That man or woman is 
no better than a nonentity, whose simple assertion 
is not credited immediately. Those whose words 
no one dares to repeat, without naming the autho- 
rity, lest the information conveyed by them should 
be too implicitly credited, such persons, I repeat it, 
exist, as if they existed not. They resemble that 
diseased eye, which, though perfect in colour and 
appearance, is wholly useless, because it cannot 
perform the function for which it was created, that 
of seeing ; for, of what use to others, and of what 
benefit to themselves, can those be whose tongues 
are always suspected of uttering falsehood, and 
whose words, instead of inspiring confidence, that 
aoul and cement of society, and of mutual regard, 
are received with offensive distrust, and never re- 
neated without caution and apology ? 

I shall now endeavour to show, that speaking 
the truth does not imply a necessity to wound 
the feelings of any one ; but that, even if the un- 
restricted practice of truth in society did at first 
give pain to self-love, it would, in the end, further 
the best views of benevolence ; namely, moral im- 
provement. 

There cannot be any reason why offensive or 
home truths should be volunteered, because one lays 
it down as a principle that truth must be spoken, 
when Galhd for. If I put a question to another 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 183 

which may, if truly answered, wound either my sen- 
sibility or my self-love, I should be rightly served, 
if replied to by a home truth ; but, taking conversa- 
tion according to its general tenor — that is, under 
the usual restraints of decorum and propriety — 
truth and benevolence will, I believe, be found to 
go hand in hand ; and not, as is commonly ima- 
gined, be opposed to each other. For instance, if 
a person in company be old, plain, affected, vulgar 
in manners, or dressed in a manner unbecoming 
their years, my utmost love of truth would never 
lead me to say, " how old you look ! or how plain 
you are ! or how improperly dressed ! or how vul- 
gar ! and how affected !" But, if this person were 
to say to me, " do I not look old 1 am I not plain ? 
am I not improperly dressed? am I vulgar in man- 
ners V and so on, I own that, according to my 
principles, I must, in my reply, adhere to the strict 
truth, after having vainly tried to avoid answering, 
by a serious expostulation on the folly, impropriety, 
and indelicacy of putting such a question to any 
one. And what would the consequence be ? 
The person so answered would, probably, never 
like me again. Still, by my reply, I might have 
been of the greatest service to the indiscreet ques- 
tioner. If ugly, the inquirer being convinced that 
not on outward charms could he or she build their 
pretensions to please, might study to improve in 
the more permanent graces of mind and manner. 
If growing old, the inquirer might be led by my 
reply, to reflect seriously on the brevity of lite, 
and try to grow in grace while advancing in years. 
If ill-dressed, or in a manner unbecoming a cer- 
tain time of life, the inquirer might be led to im- 
this particular, and be no longer exposed 



184 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

to the sneer of detraction. If vulgar, the inquirer 
might be induced to keep a watch in future over 
the admitted vulgarity; and, if affected, might en- 
deavour at greater simplicity, and less pretension 
in appearance. 

Thus, the temporary wound to the self-love of 
the inquirer might be attended with lasting benefit ; 
and benevolence in reality be not wounded, but 
gratified. Besides, as I have before observed, the 
truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

Few persons are so entirely devoid of external 
and internal charms, as not to be subjects for some 
kind of commendation ; therefore, I believe, that 
means may always be found to smooth down the 
plumes of that self-love which principle has obliged 
us to ruffle. But, if it were to become a general 
principle of action in society to utter spontaneous 
truth, the difficult situation in which I have painted 
the utterers of truth to be placed, would, in time, 
be impossible ; for, if certain that the truth would 
be spoken, and their suspicions concerning their de- 
fects confirmed, none would dare to put such ques- 
tions as I have enumerated. Those questions 
sprung from the hope of being contradicted and 
flattered, and were that hope annihilated, no one 
would ever so question again. 

I shall observe here, that those who make mor- 
tifying observations on the personal defects of their 
friends, or on any infirmity either of body or mind, 
are not actuated by the love of truth, or by any 
good motive whatever ; but that such unpleasant 
sincerity is merely the result of coarseness of mind, 
and a mean desire to inflict pain and mortifica- 
tion ; therefore, if the utterer of them be noble, or 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 185 

even royal, I should still bring a charge against 
them, terrible to "ears polite," that of ill-breeding 
and positive vulgarity. 

All human beings are convinced in the closet of 
the importance of truth to the interests of society, 
and of the mischief which they experience from 
lying, though few comparatively think the practice 
of the one, and avoidance of the other, binding 
either on the christian or the moralist, when they 
are acting in the busy scenes of the w T orld. Nor, 
can I wonder at this inconsistency, when boys and 
girls, as I have before remarked, however they 
may be taught to speak the truth at home, are so 
often tempted into the tolerated commission of 
falsehood as soon as they set their foot into a pub- 
lic school. 

But we must wonder still less at the little shame 
which attaches to what is called white lying, 
when we see it sanctioned in the highest assem- 
blies in this kingdom. 

It is with fear and humility that I venture to 
blame a custom prevalent in our legislative meet- 
ings; which, as Christianity is declared to be "part 
and parcei of the law of the land," ought to be 
christian as well as wise ; and where every mem- 
ber, feeling it binding on him individually to act 
according to the legal oath, should speak the truth, 
and nothing but the truth. Yet, what is the real 
state of things there on some occasions ? 

Tn the heat (the pardonable heat, perhaps) of 
political debates, and from the excitement produ- 
ced by collision of wits, a noble lord, or an hon- 
ourable commoner, is betrayed into severe person- 
al comment on his antagonist. The unavoidable. 
consequence, as it is thought, is apology, or duel 
16* 



186 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

But as these assemblies are called christian, 
even the warriors present deem apology a more 
proper proceeding than duel. Yet, how is apolo- 
gy to be made consistent with the dignity and dic- 
tates of worldly honour ? And how can the ne- 
cessity of duel, that savage heathenish disgrace to 
a civilized and christian land, be at once obviated? 
Oh ! the method is easy enough. " It is as easy 
as lying," and lying is the remedy. A noble lord, 
or an honourable member, gets up, and says, that 
undoubtedly his noble or honourable friend used 
such and such words ; but, no doubt, that by 
those words he did not mean what those words 
usually mean ; but he meant so and so. Some 
one on the other side immediately rises on behalf 
of the offended, and says, that if the offender wil] 
say that by so and so, he did not mean so and so 
the offended will be perfectly satisfied. On which 
the offender rises, declares that by black he did not 
mean black, but white; in short, that black is white, 
and white black ; the offended says, enough — I 
am satisfied ! the honourable house is satisfied also 
that life is put out of peril, and what is called ho- 
nour is satisfied by the sacrifice only of truth. 

I must beg leave to state, that no one can re- 
joice more fervently than myself when these dis- 
putes terminate without duels ; but must there be 
a victim ? and must that victim be truth ? As there 
is no intention to deceive on these occasions, nor 
wish, nor expectation to do so, the soul, the essence 
of lying, is not in the transaction on the side of the 
offender. But the offended is forced to say that he 
is satisfied, when he certainly can not be so. He 
knows that the offender meant, at the moment, 
what he said ; therefore, he is not satisfied when 



PAINFUL RESULTS OP LYING, 187 

he is told, in order to return his half-drawn sword 
to the scabbard, or his pistol to the holster, that 
black means white, and white means black. 

However, he has his resource ; he may ulti- 
mately tell the truth, declare himself, when out of 
the house, unsatisfied ; and may (horrible alterna- 
tive !) peril his life, or that of his opponent. But 
is there no other course which can be pursued by 
him who gave the offence ? Must apology, to satisfy, 
be made in the language of falsehood ? Could it 
not be made in the touching and impressive lan- 
guage of truth ? Might not the perhaps already 
penitent offender say, " no ; I will not be guilty of 
the meanness of subterfuge. By the words which 
1 uttered, I meant at the moment what those words 
conveyed, and nothing else. But I then saw 
through the medium of passion ; I spoke in the 
heat of resentment ; and I now scruple not to say 
that I am sorry for what I said, and entreat the 
pardon of him whom I offended. If he be not 
satisfied, I know the consequences, and must take 
the responsibility.'" 

Surely an apology like this would satisfy any 
one, however offended ; and if the adversary were 
not contented, the noble or honourable house would 
undoubtedly deem his resentment brutal, and he 
would be constrained to pardon the offender, in 
order to avoid disgrace. 

But I am not contented with the conclusion of 
the apology which I have put into the mouth of 
the offending party; for I have made him willing, if 
necessary, to comply with the requirings of worldly 
honour. Instead of ending his apology in that un- 
holy manner, I should have wished it to end thus : 
14 But if this heartfelt apology be not sufficient to 



188 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

appease the anger of him whom I have offended, 
and he expects me, in order to expiate my fault, 
to meet him in the lawless warfare of single com- 
bat, I solemnly declare that I will not so meet him ; 
that not even the dread of being accused of cow- 
ardice, and being frowned on by those whose re- 
spect I value, shall induce me to put in peril either 
his life or my own." 

If he and his opponent be married men, and, 
above all, if he be indeed a christian, he might add, 
" I will not, for any personal considerations, run 
the risk of making his wife and mine a widow, and 
his children and my own fatherless. I will not run 
the risk of disappointing that confiding tenderness 
which looks up to us for happiness and protection, 
by any rash and selfish action of mine. But, I am 
not actuated to this refusal by this consideration 
alone ; I am withheld by one more binding and 
more powerful still. For I remember the precepts 
taught in the Bible, and confirmed in the New Tes- 
tament ; and I cannot, will not, dare not, enter in- 
to single and deadly combat, in opposition to that 
awful command, 4 thou shalt not kill!' " 

Would any one, however narrow and worldly in 
his conceptions, venture to condemn as a coward, 
meanly shrinking from the responsibility he had in- 
curred, the man that could dare to put forth senti- 
ments like these, regardless of that fearful thing, 
" the world's dread laugh V 

There might be some among his hearers by whom 
this truly noble daring could not possibly be appre- 
ciated. But, though in both houses of parliament, 
there might be heroes present, whose heads are 
even bowed down by the weight of their laurels ; 
men whose courage has often paled the cheek of 



THE MdST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 189 

their enemies in battle, and brought the loftiest 
low ; still, (I must venture to assert,) he who can 
dare, for the sake of conscience, to speak and act 
counter to the prejudices and passions of the world, 
at the risk of losing his standing in society, such a 
man is a hero in the best sense of the word ; his is 
courage of the most difficult kind ; that moral 
courage, founded indeed on fear, but a fear that 
tramples firmly on every fear of man ; for it is 
that holy fear, the fear of god. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

LYING THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 

I have observed in the preceding chapter, and 
elsewhere, that all persons, in theory, consider ly- 
ing as the most odious, mean, and pernicious prac- 
tice. It is also one which is more than almost any 
other reproved, if not punished, both in servants 
and children ; — for parents, those excepted, whose 
moral sense has been rendered utterly callous, or 
who never possessed any, mourn over the slightest 
deviation from truth in their offspring, and visit it 
with instant punishment. Who has not frequently 
heard masters and mistresses of families declaring 
that some of their servants were such liars that they 
could keep them no longer ? Yet, trying and pain 
ful as intercourse with liars is universally allowed 
to be, since confidence, that necessary guardian of 
domestic peace, cannot exist where they are ; lying 
is, undoubtedly, the most common of all vices 
A friend of mine was once told by a confessor, that 



190 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

it was the one most frequently confessed to him ; 
and I am sure that if we enter society with eyes 
open to detect this propensity, we shall soon be 
convinced, that there are few, if any, of our ac- 
quaintance, however distinguished for virtue, who 
are not, on some occasions, led by good and suffi- 
cient motives, in their own opinion at least, either 
to violate or withhold the truth with intent to de- 
ceive. Nor do their most conscious or even de- 
tected deviations from veracity fill the generality of 
the world with shame or compunction. If they 
commit any other sins, they shrink from avowing 
them : but I have often heard persons confess, that 
they had, on certain occasions, uttered a direct 
falsehood, with an air which proved them to be 
proud of the deceptive skill with which it was ut- 
tered, adding, " but it was only a white lie, you 
know," with a degree of self-complacency which 
showed that, in their eyes, a white lie was no lie at 
all.. And what is more common than to hear even 
the professedly pious, as well as the moral, assert 
that a deviation from truth, or, at least withholding 
the truth, so as to deceive, is sometimes absolutely 
necessary ? Yet, I would seriously ask of those who 
thus argue, whether, when they repeat the com- 
mandment, " thou shalt not steal," they feel 
willing to admit, either in themselves or others, a 
mental reservation, allowing them to pilfer in 
any degree, or even in the slightest particular, 
make free with the property of another ? Would 
they think that pilfering tea or sugar was a venial 
fault in a servant, and excusable under strong 
temptations ? They would answer " no ;" and be 
ready to say in the words of the apostle, " who- 
soever in this respect shall offend in one point, he 






THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 191 

is guilty of all." Yet, I venture to assert, that lit- 
tle lying, alias white lying, is as much an infringe- 
ment of the moral law against "speaking leasing," 
as little pilfering is of the commandment not to 
steal ; and I defy any consistent moralist to escape 
from the obligation of the principle which I here 
lay down. 

The economical rule, " take care of the pence, 
and the pounds will take care of themselves, 1 ' 
may, with great benefit, be applied to morals. 
Few persons, comparatively, are exposed to the 
danger of committing great crimes, but all are daily 
and hourly tempted to commit little sins. Be- 
ware, therefore, of slight deviations from purity 
and rectitude, and great ones will take care of 
themselves; and the habit of resistance to trivial 
sins will make you able to resist temptation to er- 
rors of a more culpable nature ; and as those per- 
sons will not be likely to exceed improperly in 
pounds, who are laudably saving in pence, and as 
little lies are to great ones, what pence are to 
pounds, if we acquire a habit of telling truth on 
trivial occasions, we shall never be induced to vio- 
late it on serious and important ones. 

I shall now borrow the aid of others to strength- 
en what I have already said on this important sub- 
ject, or have still to say ; as I am painfully con- 
scious of my own inability to do justice to it ; 
and if the good which I desire be but effected, I 
am willing to resign to others the merit of the suc- 
cess. 



192 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

EXTRACTS FROM LORD BACON, AND OTHERS. 

In a gallery of moral philosophers, the rank 
of Bacon, in my opinion, resembles that of Titian 
in a gallery of pictures ; and some of his suc- 
cessors not only look up to him as authority for 
certain excellences, but, making him, in a mea- 
sure, their study, they endeavour to diffuse over 
their own productions the beauty of his concep- 
tions, and the depth and breadth of his manner. 
I am, therefore, sorry that those passages in his 
Essay on Truth which bear upon the subject be- 
fore me, are so unsatisfactorily brief; — however, 
as even a sketch from the hand of a master is va- 
luable, I give the following extracts from the essay 
in question. 

" But to pass from theological and philosophical 
truth — to truth, or rather veracity, in civil business, 
it will be acknowledged, even by those who practise 
it not, that clear and sound dealing is the honour of 
man's nature, and that mixture of falsehood is like 
alloy in coin of gold and silver, which may make 
the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For 
these winding and crooked courses are the goings 
of the serpent, which goeth basely upon the belly, 
and not upon the feet. There is no vice that does 
so overwhelm a man with shame, as to be found 
false or perfidious ; and therefore Montaigne saith 
very acutely, when he inquired the reason, why the 
giving the lie should be such a disgraceful and odi- 
ous charge, « If it be well weighed," said he " to 



EXTRACTS. 193 

say that a man lies, is as much as to say, that he is a 
bravado towards God, and a coward towards man. 
For the liar insults God, and crouches to man." 
Essay on Truth. 

I hope 1 have derived considerable assistance 
from Addison ; as he ranks so very high in the list 
of moral writers, that Dr. Watts said of his greatest 



lumes of the Spectator, such a reverence of things 
sacred, so many valuable remarks for our conduct 
in life, that they are not improper to lie in parlours, 
or summer-houses, to entertain one's thoughts in 
any moments of leisure.'" But, in spite of his fame 
as a moralist, and of this high eulogium from one of 
the best authorities, Addison appears to have done. 
very little as an advocate for spontaneous truth, and 
an assailant of spontaneous lying ; and has been 
much less zealous and effective than either Hawkes- 
worth or Johnson. However, what he has said is 
well said ; and I have pleasure in giving it. 

" The great violation of the point of honour from 
man to man is, giving the lie. One may tell ano- 
ther that he drinks and blasphemes, and it may pass 
unnoticed : but to say he lies, though but in jest, is 
an affront that nothing but blood can expiate. The 
reason perhaps may be, because no other vice im- 
plies a want of courage so much as the making of a 
lie; and, therefore, telling a man he lies, is touch- 
ing him in the most sensible part of honour, and 
indirectly calling him a coward. I cannot omit, 
under this head, what Herodotus tells us of the an- 
cient Persians ; that, from the age of five years to 
twenty, they instruct their sons only in three things ; 
— to manage the horse, to make use of the bow, 
and to speak the truth" — Spectator, Letter 99. 
17 



194 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

I know not whence Addison took the extract, 
from which I give the following quotation, but I re- 
fer my readers to No. 352 of the Spectator. 

" Truth is always consistent with itself, and 
needs nothing to help it out : it is always near at 
hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
out, before we are aware : whereas a lie is trouble- 
some, and sets a man's invention upon the rack ; and 
one break wants a great many more to make it 
good. It is like building on a false foundation, 
which continually stands in need of props to keep 
it up, and proves at last more chargeable than to 
have raised a substantial building at first upon a true 
and solid foundation : for sincerity is firm and sub- 
stantial, and there is nothing hollow and unsound in 
it ; and, because it is plain and open, fears no dis- 
covery, of which the crafty man is always in dan- 
ger. All his pretences are so transparent, that he 
that runs may read them; he is the last man that 
finds himself to be found out ; and while he takes 
it for granted that he makes fools of others, he ren- 
ders himself ridiculous. Add to all this, that sin- 
cerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an ex- 
cellent instrument for the speedy despatch of bu- 
siness. It creates confidence in those we have 
to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries 
and brings things to an issue in a few words. It is 
like travelling in a plain beaten road, which com- 
monly brings a man sooner to his journey than by- 
ways, in which men often lose themselves. In a 
word, whatsoever convenience may be thought to 
be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over ; 
but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it 
brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and sus- 
picion, so that he is not believed when he speaks 



EXTRACTS. 195 

truth, nor trusted, perhaps, when he means honest- 
ly. When a man has once forfeited the reputation 
of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will serve 
his turn ; neither truth nor falsehood." 

Dr. Hawkesworth, in the " Adventurer," makes 
lying the subject of a whole number ; and begins 
thus : — " When Aristotle was once asked what a 
man could gain by uttering falsehoods, he replied, 
4 not to be credited when he shall speak the truth.' 
The character of a liar is at once so hateful and 
contemptible, that even of those who have lost their 
virtue, it might be expected that, from the violation 
of truth, they should be restrained by their pride ;" 
and again, " almost every other vice that disgraces 
human nature may be kept in countenance by ap- 
plause and association The liar, and 

only the liar, is invariably and universally despised, 
abandoned, and disowned. It is natural to expect 
that a crime thus generally detested should be ge- 
nerally avoided, &c. Yet, so it is, that, in defiance 
of censure and contempt, truth is frequently vio- 
lated ; and scarcely the most vigilant and unremit- 
ted circumspection will secure him, that mixes with 
mankind, ffom being hourly deceived by men of 
whom it can scarcely be imagined that they mean 
any injury to him, or profit to themselves.'" He 
then enters into a copious discussion of the lie of 
vanity, which he calls the most common of lies, and 
not the least mischievous ; but I shall content my- 
self with only one extract from the conclusion of 
this paper. " There is, I think, an ancient law in 
Scotland, by which leasing making was capitally 
punished. I am, indeed, far fijom desiring to in- 
crease in this country the number of executions ; 
yet, I cannot but think that they who destroy the 



196 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

confidence of society, weaken the credit of intelli- 
gence, and interrupt the security of life, might very 
properly be awakened to a sense of their crimes by 
denunciations of a whipping post or pillory ; since 
many are so insensible of right and wrong, that 
they have no standard of action but the law, nor 
feel guilt but as they dread punishment." 

In No. 54 of the same work, Dr. Hawkesworth 
says, " that these men, who consider the imputa- 
tion of some vices as a compliment, would resent 
that of a lie as an insult, for which life only could 
atone. Lying, however," he adds, " does not in- 
cur more infamy than it Reserves, though other 
vices incur less. But," continues he, "there is 
equal turpitude and yet greater meanness, in those 
forms of speech which deceive without direct false- 
hood. The crime is committed with greater de- 
liberation, as it requires more contrivance ; and by 
the offenders the use of language is totally per- 
verted. They conceal a meaning opposite to that 
which they express ; their speech is a kind of riddle 
propounded for an evil purpose." 

"Indirect lies, more effectually than others, de- 
stroy that mutual confidence which is sard to be the 
band of society. They are more frequently re- 
peated, because they are not prevented by the 
dread of detection. Is it not astonishing that a 
practice so universally infamous, should not be more 
generally avoided ? To think, is to renounce it ; 
and, that I may fix the attention of my readers a 
little longer upon the subject, 1 shall relate a story 
which, perhaps, by those who have much sensibi- 
lity, will not soon £e forgotten." 

He then proceeds to relate a story, which is, I 
think, more full of moral teaching than any one I 



EXTRACTS. 197 

ever read on the subject ; and so superior to the 
preceding ones written by myself, that I am glad 
there is no necessity for me to bring them in im- 
mediate competition with it ; and that all I need 
do, is to give the moral of that story. Dr. Hawkes- 
worth calls the tale " the Fatal Effects of False 
Apologies and Pretences ;" but " the fatal effects 
of white lying" would haw been a juster title ; 
and perhaps my readers will be of the same opi- 
nion, when I have given an extract from it. I shall 
preface the extract by saying, that by a series of 
white lies, well-intentioned, but, like all lies, mis- 
chievous in their result, either to the purity of the 
moral feeling, or to the interests of thos^ who utter 
them, jealousy was aroused in the husband of one 
of the heroines, and duel and death were the con- 
sequences. The following letter, written by the 
too successful combatant to his wife, will sufficient- 
ly explain all that is necessary for my purpose. 

" My dear Charlotte, 1 am the most wretched of 
all men ; but I do not upbraid you as the cause. 
Would that I w T ere not more guilty than you ! We 
are the martyrs of dissimulation. But your dis- 
simulation and falsehood were the effects of mine. 
By the success of a lie, put into the mouth of a 
chairman, I was prevented reading a letter which 
would at last have undeceived me ; and, by persist- 
ing in dissimulation, the Captain has made his 
friend a fugitive, and his wife a widow. Thus does 
insincerity terminate in misery and confusion, whe- 
ther in its immediate purpose it succeeds, or is dis- 
appointed. If we ever meet again, (to meet again 
in peace is impossible, but, if we ever meet again,) 
let us resolve to be sincere ; to be sincere is to be wise, 
innocent, and safe. We venture to commit faults, 
17* 



198 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

which shame or fear would prevent, if we did not 
hope to conceal them by a lie. But, in the laby- 
rinth of falsehood, men meet those evils which they 
seek to avoid ; and, as in the straight path of truth 
alone they can see before them, in the straight path 
of truth alone they can pursue felicity with success. 
Adieu ! I am ... . dreadful ! .... I can sub- 
scribe nothing that does not reproach and torment 
me." 

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this let- 
ter, the unhappy lady heard that her husband was 
cast away, in his passage to France. 

I shall next bring forward a greater champion 
of truth than the author of the Adventurer ; and 
put her cause into the hands of the mighty author 
of the Rambler. Boswell, in his Life of Dr. John- 
son, says thus : — 

" He would not allow his servant to say he was 
not at home when he really was." " A servant's 
strict regard for truth," said he, "must be weaken- 
ed by the practice. A philosopher may know that 
it is merely a form of denial ; but few servants are 
such nice distinguishes. If I accustom a servant 
to tell a lie for me, have I not reason to apprehend 
that he will tell many lies for himself?"* 

* Boswell adds, in his own person, " I am however satisfied, 
that every servant, of any degree of intelligence, understands 
saying, his master is not at home, not at all as the affirmation 
of a fact, but as customary words, intimating that his master 
wishes not to be seen ; so that there can be no bad effect from 
it." So says the man of the world ; and so say almost all the 
men of the world, and women too. But, even they will ad- 
mit that the opinion of Johnson is of more weight, on a ques- 
tion of morals, than that of Boswell; and I beg leave to add 
that of another powerful-minded and pious man. Scott, the 
editor of the Bible, says, in a note to the fourth chapter of 



EXTRACTS. 199 

" The importance of strict and scrupulous vera- 
city," says Boswell, vol. ii. pp. 454-55, "cannot be 
too often inculcated. Johnson was known to be so 
rigidly attentive to it, that, even in his common con- 
versation, the slightest circumstance was mention- 
ed with exact precision. The knowledge of his 
having such a principle and habit made his friends 
have a perfect reliance on the truth of every thing 
that ke told, however it might have been doubt- 
ed, if told by others. 

" What a bribe and a reward does this anecdote 
hold out to us to be accurate in relation ! for, of all 
privileges, that of being considered as a person on 
whose veracity and accuracy every one can impli- 
citly rely, is perhaps the most valuable to a social 
being." Vol. iii. p. 450. 

" Next morning, while we were at breakfast," 
observes the amusing biographer, " Johnson gave 
a very earnest recommendation of what he himself 



Judges, " A very criminal deviation from simplicity and god- 
liness is become customary amongst professed Christians. I 
mean the instructing and requiring servants to prevaricate (to 
word it no more harshly) in order that their masters may be 
preserved from the inconvenience of unwelcome visitants. 
And it should be considered whether they who require their 
servants to disregard the truth, for their pleasure, will not 
teach them an evil lesson, and habituate them to use false- 
hood for their own pleasure also." When I first wrote on 
this subject, I was not aware that writers of such eminence 
as those from whom I now quote had written respecting this 
Lie of Convenience ; but it is most gratifying to me to find 
the truth of my humble opinion confirmed by such men as 
Johnson, Scott, and Chalmers. 

I know not who wrote a very amusing and humourous 
book, called "Thinks I to Myself;" but this subject is admi- 
rably treated there, and with effective ridicule, as, indeed, is 
worldly insincerity in general. 



200 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

practised with the utmost conscientiousness; 1 
mean, a strict regard to truth, even in the most 
minute particulars. l Accustom your children, 1 
said he, ' constantly to this. If a thing happened 
at one window, and they, when relating it, say that 
it happened at another, do no let it pass ; but in- 
stantly check them ; you donH know where deviation 
from truth will endS Our lively hostess, whose fan- 
cy was impatient of the rein, fidgetted at this, and 
ventured to say, fc this is too much. If Mr. John- 
son should forbid me to drink tea, I would comply, 
as I should feel the restraint only twice a-day ; but 
little variations in narrative must happen a thou- 
sand times a-day, if one is not perpetually watching/ 
Johnson. c Well, madam ; and you ought to be per- 
petually watching. It is more from carelessness 
about truth, than from intentional lying, that there 
is so much falsehood in the world.' " 

" Johnson inculcated upon all his friends the im- 
portance of perpetual vigilance against the slight- 
est degree of falsehood ; the effect of which, as Sir 
Joshua Re\ nolds observed to me, has been, that 
all who were of his school are distinguished for a 
love of truth and accuracy, which they would not 
have possessed in the same degree, if they had not 
been acquainted with Johnson."* 

u We talked of the casuistical question," says 
Boswell, vol. iv. 334, " whether it was allowable at 
any time to depart from truth." Johnson. " Tne 
general rule is, that truth should never be violated ; 
because it is of the utmost importance to the com 

* However BoswelPs self-flattery might blind him, what he 
says relative to the harmlessness of servants denying their 
masters, makes him an exception to this general rule. 



EXTRACTS. 201 

fort of life that we should have a full security by 
mutual faith ; and occasional inconveniences should 
be willingly suffered, that we may preserve it. I 
deny," he observed further on, " the lawfulness of 
telling a lie to a sick man, for fear of alarming him. 
You have no business with consequences ; you are to 
tell the truth: " 

Leaving what the great moralist himself added 
on this subject, because it is not necessary for my 
purpose, I shall do Boswell the justice to insert the 
following testimony, which he himself bears to the 
importance of truth. 

"I cannot help thinking that there is much 
weight in the opinion of those who have held that 
truth, as an eternal and immutable principle, is ne- 
ver to be violated for supposed, previous, or superior 
obligations, of which every man being led to judge 
for himself, there is great danger that we too often, 
from partial motives, persuade ourselves that they 
exist; and, probably, whatever extraordinary in- 
stances may sometimes occur, where some evil may 
be prevented by violating this noble principle, it 
would be found that human happiness would, upon 
the zvhole, be more perfect, were truth universally 
preserved." 

But, however just are the above observations, 
they are inferior in pithiness, and practical power, 
to the following few words, extracted from another 
of Johnson's sentences. "All truth is not of 
equal importance ; but, if little violations be allowed, 
every violation will, in time, be thought little." 

The following quotation is from the 96th number 
of the Rambler. It is the introduction to an Alle- 
gory, called Truth Falsehood, and Fiction ; but, 



202 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

as I think his didactic is here superior to his narra- 
tive, I shall content myself with giving the first. 

" It is reported of the Persians, by an ancient 
writer, that the sum of their education consisted in 
teaching youth to ride, to shoot with the bow, and 
to speak truth. The bow and the horse were easi- 
ly mastered ; but it would have been happy if we 
had been informed by what arts veracity was culti- 
vated, and by what preservations a Persian mind 
was secured against the temptations of falsehood. 

" There are, indeed, in the present corruptions 
of mankind, many incitements to forsake truth ; the 
need of palliating our own faults, and the conve- 
nience of imposing on the ignorance or credulity of 
others, so frequently occur ; so many immediate 
evils are to be avoided, and so many present grati- 
fications obtained by craft and delusion ; that very 
few of those who are much entangled in life, have 
spirit and constancy sufficient to support them in 
the steady practice of open veracity. In order that 
all men may be taught to speak truth, it is necessa- 
ry that all likewise should learn to hear it ; for no 
species of falsehood is more frequent than flattery, 
to which the coward is betrayed by fear, the de- 
pendant by interest, and the friend by tenderness. 
Those who are neither servile nor timorous, are 
yet desirous to bestow pleasure ; and, while unjust 
demands of praise continue to be made, there will 
always be some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will 
dispose to pay them." 

There cannot be a stronger picture given of the 
difficulties attendant on speaking the strict truth : 
and I own I feel it to be a difficulty which it re- 
quires the highest of motives to enable us to over- 



EXTRACTS* 203 

come. Still, as the old proverb says, " where 
there is a will, there is a way ;" and if that will be 
derived from the only right source, the only effec- 
tive motive, I am well convinced, that all obstacles 
to the utterance of spontaneous truth would at 
length vanish, and that falsehood would become 
as rare a^ it is contemptible and pernicious. 

The contemporary of Johnson and Hawkesworth, 
Lord Karnes, comes next on my list of moral wri- 
ters, who have treated on the subject of truth : but I 
am not able to give more than a short extract from 
his Sketches of the History of Man ; a work which 
had no small reputation in its day, and was in every 
one's hand, till eclipsed by the depth and brilliancy 
of more modern Scotch philosophers. 

He says, p. 169, in his 7th section, with respect 
to veracity in particular, "man is so constituted, 
that he must be indebted to information for the 
knowledge of most things that benefit or hurt him; 
and if he could not depend on information, society 
would be very little benefited. Further, it is wise- 
ly ordered, that we should be bound by the moral 
sense to speak truth, even where we perceive no 
harm in transgressing that duty, because it is suffi- 
cient that harm may come, though not foreseen ; at 
the same time, falsehood aha ays does mischief It 
may happen not to injure us externally in our repu- 
tation, or our goods ; but it never fails to injure us 
internally ; the sweetest and most refined pleasure 
of society is a candid intercourse of sentiments, of 
opinion, of desires, and wishes ; and it would be 
poisonous to indulge any falsehood in such an in- 
tercourse." 

My next extracts are from two celebrated di- 
vines of the Church of England, Bishop Beveridge, 



204 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

and Archdeacon Paley. The Bishop, in his " Pii 
vate Thoughts," thus heads one of his sections, 
(which he denominates resolutions :) 

Resolution III. — / am resolved, by the grace of 
God, always to make my tongue and heart go together, 
so as never to speak with the one, zchat I do not think 
in the other. 

" As my happiness consisteth in nearness and vi- 
cinity, so doth my holiness in likeness and confor- 
mity to the chiefest good. I am so much the bet- 
ter, as I am the liker the best ; and so much the 
holier, as I am more conformable to the holiest, or 
rather to him who is holiness itself. Now, one 
great title which the Most High is pleased to give 
himself, and by which he is pleased to reveal him 
self to us, is the God of truth : so that I shall be so 
much the liker to the God of Truth, by how much 
I am the more constant to the truth of God. And, 
the farther I deviate from this, the nearer I ap- 
proach to the nature of the devil, who is the fa- 
ther of lies, and liars too ; John viii. 44. And there- 
fore to avoid the scandal and reproach, as well as 
the dangerous malignity of this damnable sin, I am 
resolved, by the blessing of God, always to tune my 
tongue in unison to my heart, so as never to speak 
any thing, but what I think really to be true. So 
that, if ever I speak what is not true, it shall not be 
the error of my will, but of my understanding. 

" I know, lies are commonly distinguished into 
officious, pernicious, and jocose : and some may 
fancy some of them more tolerable than others. 
But, for my own part, I think they are all perni- 
cious ; and therefore, not to be jested withal, nor in- 
dulged, upon any pretence or colour whatsoever. Not 
as if it was a sin, not to speak exactly as a thing 



EXTRACTS. 205 

is in itself, or as it seems to me in its literal mean- 
ing, without some liberty granted to rhetorical 
tropes and figures ; [for so, the Scripture itself 
would be chargeable with lies ; many things being 
contained in it which are not true in a literal sense.] 
But, I must so use rhetorical, as not to abuse my 
Christian liberty ; and therefore, never to make 
use of hyperboles, ironies, or other tropes and fig- 
ures, to deceive or impose upon my auditors, but 
only for the better adorning, illustrating, or con- 
firming the matter. 

" I am resolved never to promise any thing with 
my mouth, but what I intend to perform in my 
heart ; and never to intend to perform any thing, 
but what I am sure I can perform. For, though I 
may intend to do as I say now, yet there are a 
thousand weighty things that intervene, which may 
turn the balance of my intentions, or otherwise 
hinder the performance of my promise." 

I come now to an extract from Dr. Paley, the 
justly celebrated author of the work entitled " Mo- 
ral Philosophy." 

" A lie is a breach of promise : for whosoever 
seriously addresses his discourse to another, tacitly 
promises to speak the truth, because he knows that 
the truth is expected. Or the obligation of vera- 
city may be made out from the direct ill conse- 
quences of lying to social happiness ; which conse- 
quences consist, either in some specific injury to 
particular individuals, or in the destruction of that 
confidence which is essential to the intercourse of 
human life ; for which latter reason, a lie may be 
pernicious in its general tendency ; and, therefore, 
criminal, though it produce no particular or visible 
18 



206 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

mischief to any one. There are falsehoods which 
are not lies ; that is, which are not criminal, as 
where no one is deceived ; which is the case in 
parables, fables, jests, tales to create mirth, ludi- 
crous embellishments of a story, where the declar- 
ed design of the speaker is, not to inform, but to 
divert; compliments in the subscription of a letter ; 
a servant's denying his master ; a prisoner's pleading 
not guilty \ an advocate asserting the justice, or his 
belief in the justice, of his client's cause. In such in- 
stances, no confidence is destroyed, because ncne was 
reposed y no promise to speak the truth is violated, be- 
cause none was given, or understood to be given. 

" In the first place, it is almost impossible to 
pronounce beforehand with certainty, concerning 
any lie, that it is inoffensive, volat irrevocable, and 
collects oft-times reactions in its flight, which en- 
tirely change its nature. It may owe, possibly, its 
mischief to the officiousness or misrepresentation 
of those who circulate it ; but the mischief is, never- 
theless, in some degree chargeable upon the origi- 
nal editor. In the next place, this liberty in con- 
versation defeats its own end. Much of the plea- 
sure, and all the benefit, of conversation, depend 
upon our opinion of the speaker's veracity, for 
which this rule leaves no foundation. The faith, 
indeed, of a hearer must be extremely perplexed, 
who considers the speaker, or believes that the 
speaker considers himself, as under no obligation 
to adhere to truth, but according to the particular 
importance of what he relates. But, besides and 
above both these reasons, white lies always intro- 
duce others of a darker complexion. I have sel- 



EXTRACTS. 207 

dom known any one who deserted truth in trifles 
that could be trusted in matters of 'importance .* 

" Nice distinctions are out of the question upon 
occasions which, Jike those of speech, return every 
hour. The habit, therefore, when once formed, is 
easily extended to serve the designs of malice or 
interest ; like all habits, it spreads indeed of itself. 

" As there may be falsehoods which are not lies, 
so there are many lies without literal or direct 
falsehood. An opening is always left for this spe- 
cies of prevarication, when the literal and gram- 
matical signification of a sentence is different from 
the popular and customary meaning. It is the 
wilful deceit that makes the lie ; and we wilfully 
deceive when our expressions are not true in the 
sense in which we believe the hearer apprehends 
them. Besides, it is absurd to contend for any 
sense of words, in opposition to usage, and upon no- 
thing else ; — or a man may act a lie, — as by point- 
ing his finger in a wrong direction, when a traveller 
inquires of him his road; — or when a tradesman 
shuts up his windows, to induce his creditors to be- 
lieve that he is abroad : for, to all moral purpo- 
ses, and therefore as to veracity, speech and action 
are the same — speech being only a mode of ac- 
tion. — Or, lastly, there may be lies of omission. A 
writer on English history, who, in his account of 
the reign of Charles the first, should wilfully sup- 
press any evidence of that Prince's despotic mea- 
sures and designs, might be said to lie ; for, by en- 
titling his book a History of England, he engages 

* How contrary is the spirit of this wise observation, and 
the following ones, to that which Paley manifests in his tole- 
ration of servants being taught to deny their masters ! 



208 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

io relate the whole truth of the history, or, at least, 
all he knows of it." 

I feel entire unity of sentiment willi Paley on all 
that he has advanced in these extracts, except in 
those passages which are printed in Italic ; but 
Chalmers and Scott have given a complete refuta- 
tion to his opinion on the innocence of a servant's 
denying his master, in the extracts given in a pre- 
ceding chapter ; and it will be as ably refuted in 
some succeeding extracts. But, eloquent and con- 
vincing as Paley generally is, it is not from his Mo- 
ral Philosophy that he derives his purest reputation. 
He has long been considered as lax, negligent, and 
inconclusive, on many points, as a moral philoso- 
pher. 

It was when he came forward as a Christian 
warrior against infidelity, that he brought, his best 
powers into the field ; and his name will live for 
ever as the author of Evidences of Christianity, and 
the Horse Paulinse.* I shall now avail myself of 
the assistance of a powerful and eloquent writer 
of a more modern date, William Godwin, with 
whom I have entire correspondence of opinion on 
the subject of spontaneous truth, though, on some 
other subjects, I decidedly differ from him. " It 
was further proposed," says he, " to consider the 
value of truth in a practical view, as it relates to 
the incidents and commerce of ordinary life, un- 

* I heard the venerable Bishop of say, that when 

he gave Dr. Paley some very valuable preferment, he ad- 
dressed him thus : " I give you this, Dr. Paley, not for your 
Moral Philosophy, nor for your Natural Theology, but for 
your Evidences of Christianity, and your Horae Paulime." 



EXTRACTS, 209 

der which form it is known by the denomination of 
sincerity. 

" The powerful recommendations attendant on 
sincerity are obvious. It is intimately connected 
with the general dissemination of innocence, energy, 
intellectual improvement, and philanthropy. Did 
every man impose this law upon himself; did he 
rf gard himself as not authorized to conceal any 
part of his character and conduct ; this circum- 
stance alone would prevent millions of actions from 
being perpetrated, in which we are now induced to 
engage, by the prospect of success and impunity." 
" There is a further benefit that would result to m^ 
from the habit of telling every man the truth, re- 
gardless of the dictates of worldly prudence and 
custom ; — I should acquire a clear, ingenuous, and 
unembarrassed air. According to the established 
modes of society, whenever I have a circumstance 
to state which would require some effort of mind 
and discrimination to enable me to do it justice, 
and state it with proper effect, I fly from the task, 
and take refiige in silence and equivocation." 

" But the principle which forbade me conceal- 
ment, would keep my mind for ever awake, and for 
ever warm. I should always be obliged to exert 
my attention, lest, in pretending to tell the truth, I 
should tell it in so imperfect and mangled a way as 
to produce the effect of falsehood. If I spoke to 
a man of my own faults, or those of his neighbour, 
I should be anxious not to suffer them to come dis- 
torted or exaggerated to his mind, or permit what 
at first was fact, to degenerate into satire. If I 
spoke to him of the errors he had himself commit- 
ted, I should carefully avoid those inconsiderate 
expressions which might convert what was in itself 
18* 



210 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

beneficent, into offence, and my thoughts would be 
full of that kindness and generous concern for his 
welfare which such a task necessarily brings with 
it. The effects of sincerity upon others would be 
similar to its effects on him that practised it. Plain 
dealing, truth spoken with kindness, but spoken 
with sincerity, is the most wholesome of all disci- 
plines. ....." "The only species of sincerity 

which can, in any degree, prove satisfactory to the 
enlightened moralist and politician, is that where 
frankness is perfect, and every degree of reserve is 
discarded." 

" Nor is there any danger that such a character 
should degenerate into ruggedness and brutality. 

" Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is 
here recommended, is practised from a conscious- 
ness of its utility, and from sentiments of philan- 
thropy. 

" It will communicate frankness to the voice, fer- 
vour to the gesture, and kindness to the heart. 

" The duty of sincerity is one of those general 
principles wh?ch reflection and experience have 
enjoined upon us as conducive to the happiness of 
mankind." 

" Sincerity and plain dealing are eminently con- 
ducive to the interests of mankind at large, because 
they afford that ground of confidence and reason- 
able expectation which are essential to wisdom 
and virtue.'" 

I feel it difficult to forbear giving further extracts 
from this very interesting and well-argued part of 
the work from which I quote ; but the limits neces- 
sary for my own book forbid me to indulge myself 
in copious quotations from this. I must, however, 
give two further extracts from the conclusion of this 



EXTRACTS. 211 

chapter. " No man can be eminently either re- 
spectable, or amiable, or useful, who is not distin- 
guished for the frankness and candour of his man- 
ners He that is not conspicuously sin- 
cere, either very little partakes of the passion of 
doing good, or is pitiably ignorant of the means 
by which the objects of true benevolence are to be 
effected." The writer proceeds to discuss the 
mode of excluding visiters, and it is done in so 
powerful a manner, that 1 must avail myself of the 
aid which it affords me. 

" Let us, then, according to the well-known axi 
om of morality, put ourselves in the place of that 
man upon whom is imposed this ungracious task. 
Is there any of us that would be contented to per- 
form it in person, and to say that our father and 
brother was not at home, when they were really in 
the house ? Should we not feel ourselves contami 
nated by the plebeian lie ? Can we thus be justified 
in requiring that from another which we should 
shrink from as an act of dishonour in ourselves?" 
I must here beg leave to state that, generally 
speaking, masters and mistresses only command 
their servants to tell a lie which they would be very 
willing to tell themselves. I have heard wives deny 
their husbands, husbands their wives, children their 
parents, and parents their children, with as much 
unblushing effrontery as if there were no such thing 
as truth, or its obligations ; but I respect his question 
on this subject, envy him his ignorance, and ad- 
mire his epithet plebeian lie. 

But then, I think that all lies are plebeian. Was 
it not a king of France, a captive in this kingdom, 
who said, (with an honourable consciousness, that 
a sovereign is entitled to set a high example to his 



212 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

people,) " if honour be driven from every other 
spot, it should always inhabit the breast of kings !" 
and if truth be banished from every other descrip- 
tion of persons, it ought more especially to be 
found on the lips of those whom rank and fortune 
have placed above the reach of strong temptation 
to falsehood. 

But, while I think that, however exalted be the 
rank of the person who utters a lie, that person 
suffers by his deceit a worse than plebeian degrada- 
tion ; I also assert, that the humblest plebeian, who 
is known to be incapable of falsehood, and to utter, 
on all occasions, spontaneous truth, is raised far 
above the mendacious patrician in the scale of real 
respectability ; and in comparison, the plebeian be- 
comes patrician, and the patrician plebeian. 

I shall conclude my references, with extracts 
from two modern Scotch philosophers of conside- 
rable and deserved reputation, Dr. Reid, and Dr 
Thomas Browne.* 

" Without fidelity and trust, there can be no hu- 
man society. There never was a society even of 
savages, nay, even of robbers and pirates, in which 
there was not a great degree of veracity and fide- 
lity amongst themselves. Every man thinks him- 
self injured and ill-used when he is imposed upon. 
Every man takes it as a reproach when falsehood 
is imputed to him. There are the clearest evi- 
dences that all men disapprove of falsehood, when 
their judgment is not biassed.*" — ReuPs Essays on 

* This latter gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of 
being personally acquainted, has, by his early death, left a 
chasm in the world of literature, and in the domestic circle in 
which he moved, which cannot easily be filled up. 



EXTRACTS. 213 

the Power of the Human Mind, chap. vi. " On the 
Nature of a Contract." 

" The next duty of which we have to treat, is 
ihat of veracity, which relates to the knowledge or 
belief of others, as capable of being affected by the 
meanings, true or false, which our words or our 
conduct may convey ; and consists in the faithful 
conformity of our language, or of our conduct, when 
it is intended tacitly to supply the place of language 
to the truth which we profess to deliver ; or, at 
least, to that which is at the time believed by us to 
be true. So much of the happiness of social life 
is derived from the use of language, and so profit- 
less would the mere power of language be, but for 
the truth which dictates it, that the abuse of the 
confidence which is placed in our declarations may 
not merely be in the highest degree injurious to the 
individual deceived, but would tend, if general, to 
throw back the whole race of mankind into that 
barbarism from which they have emerged, and as- 
cended through still purer air, and still brighter sun- 
shine, to that noble height, which they have reach- 
ed. It is not wonderful, therefore, that veracity, 
so important to the happiness of all, and yet sub- 
ject to so many temptations of personal interest in 
the violation of it, should, in all nations, have had 
a high place assigned to it among the virtues.'" 
Dr. Thomas Browned Lectures on the Philosophy of 
the Human Mind, vol. iv. p. 225. 

It may be asked why I have taken the trouble 
to quote from so many authors, in order to prove 
what no one ever doubted ; namely, the impor- 
tance and necessity of speaking the truth, and the 
meanness and mischief of uttering falsehood. But 
I have added authority to authority, in order re- 



214 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

newedly to force on the attention of my readers^ 
that not one of these writers mentions any allowed 
exception to the general rule, that truth is always 
to be spoken ; no mental reservation is pointed out 
as permitted on special occasions ; no individual is 
authorized to be the judge of right or wrong in his 
own case, and to set his own opinion of the pro- 
priety and necessity of lying, in particular instan- 
ces, against the positive precept to abstain from ly- 
ing ; an injunction which is so commonly enforced 
in the page of the moralist, that it becomes a sort 
of imperative command. Still, in spite of the uni- 
versally acknowledged conviction of mankind, that 
truth is virtue, and falsehood vice, I scarcely know 
an individual who does not occasionally shrink 
from acting up to his conviction on this point, and 
is not, at times, irresistibly impelled to qualify that 
conviction, by saying, that on " almost all occa- 
sions the truth is to be spoken, and never to be with- 
held.'" Or they may, perhaps, quote the well-known 
proverb, that " truth is not to be spoken at all 
times.*'' But the real meaning of that proverb ap- 
pears to me to be simply this : that we are never 
officiously or gratuitously to utter offensive truths ; 
not that truth, when required, is ever to be withheld. 
The principle of truth is an immutable principle, or 
it is of no use as a guard, nor safe as the founda- 
tion of morals. A moral law on which it is dan- 
gerous to act to the uttermost, is, however admi- 
rable, no better than Harlequin's horse, which was 
the very best and finest of all horses, and worthy 
of the admiration of the whole world, but unfor- 
tunately the horse was dead ; and if the law to tell 
the truth inviolably, is not to be strictly adhered to, 
without any regard to consequences, it is, however 



EXTRACTS. 215 

admirable, as useless as the merits of Harlequin's 
dead horse. King Theodoric, when advised by 
his courtiers to debase the coin, declared, " that 
nothing which bore his image should ever lie.'" 
Happy would it be for the interests of society, if, 
having as much proper self-respect as this good 
monarch had, we could resolve never to allow our 
looks or words to bear any impress, but that of the 
strict truth; and were as reluctant to give a false 
impression of ourselves, in any way, as to circulate 
light sovereigns and forged bank-notes. Oh ! that 
the day may come when it shall be thought as dis- 
honourable to commit the slightest breach of vera- 
city, as to pass counterfeit shillings ; and when both 
shall be deemed equally detrimental to the safety 
and prosperity of the community. 

I intend in a future work to make some observa- 
tions on several collateral descendants from the 
large family of lies. Such as inaccuracy in re- 
lation ; promise-breaking ; engagement-break- 
ing, and want of punctuality. Perhaps pro- 
crastination comes in a degree under the head 
of lying; at least procrastinators lie to themselves; 
they say, " I will do so and so to-morrow," and as 
they believe their own assertions, they are guilty of 
self-deception, the most dangerous of all decep- 
tions. But those who are enabled by constant 
watchfulness never to deceive others, will at last 
learn never to deceive themselves ; for truth being 
their constant aim in all their dealings, they will 
not shrink from that most effective of all means to 
acquire it, self-examination. 



216 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



CHAPTER XV. 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS FROM HAWKES- 
WORTH AND OTHERS. 

In the preceding chapter, I have given various 
extracts from authors who have written on the sub- 
ject of truth, and borne their testimony to the ne- 
cessity of a strict adherence to it on all occasions, 
if individuals wish not only to be safe and respecta- 
ble themselves, but to establish the interests of so- 
ciety on a sure foundation ; but, before I proceed 
to other comments on this important subject, I 
shall make observations on some of the above-men- 
tioned extracts. 

Dr. Hawkesworth says, " that the liar, and only 
the liar, is universally despised, abandoned, and 
disowned.'" But is this the fact ? Inconvenient, 
dangerous, and disagreeable, though it be, to asso- 
ciate with those on whose veracity we cannot de- 
pend ; yet which of us has ever known himself, or 
others, refuse intercourse with persons who habitu- 
ally violate the truth ? We dismiss the servant in- 
deed, whose habit of lying offends us, and we 
cease to employ the menial, or the tradesman ; but 
when did we ever hesitate to associate with the 
liar of rank and opulence ? When was our moral 
sense so delicate, as to make us refuse to eat of the 
costly food, and reject the favour or services of any 
one, because the lips of the obliger were stained 
with falsehood, and the conversation with guile ? 
Surely, this writer overrates the delicacy of moral 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 217 

feeling in society, or we, of these latter days, have 
fearfully degenerated from our ancestors. 

He also says, " that the imputation of a lie, is an 
insult for which life only can atone." And amongst 
men of worldly honour, duel is undoubtedly the re- 
sult of the lie given, and received. Consequently 
the interests of truth are placed under the secure 
guardianship of fear on great occasions. But, it is 
not so on daily, and more common ones ; and the 
man who would thus fatally resent the imputation 
of falsehood, does not even reprove the lie of con- 
venience in his wife and children, nor refrain from 
being guilty of it himself; he will often, perhaps, 
be the bearer of a lie to excuse them from keeping 
a disagreeable engagement ; and will not scruple 
to make lying apologies for some negligence of his 
own. But, is Dr. Hawkesworth right in saying 
that offenders like these are shunned and despised ? 
Certainly not ; nor are they even self-reprobated, 
nor would they be censured by others, if their false- 
hood were detected. Yet are they not liars ? and 
is the lie imputed to them, (in resentment of which 
imputation they were willing to risk their life, and 
the life of another,) a greater breach of the moral 
law, than the little lies which they are so willing 
to tell ? and who, that is known to tell lies on tri- 
vial occasions, has a right to resent the imputation 
of lying on great ones ? Whatever flattering unc- 
tion we may lay to our souls, there is only one 
wrong and one right ; and I repeat, that, as those 
servants who pilfer groceries only are with justice 
called thieves, because they have thereby shown 
that the principle of honesty is not in them, — • 
so may the utterers of little lies be with justice 
called liars, because they equally show that they 
19 



218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

are strangers to the restraining and immutable 
principle of truth. 

Hawkesworth says, " that indirect lies more ef- 
fectually destroy mutual confidence, that band of 
society, than any others ;" and I fully agree with 
him in his idea of the " great turpitude and great- 
er meanness of those forms of speech, which de- 
ceive without direct falsehood ;" but, I cannot 
agree with him, that these deviations from truth 
are "universally infamous ;" on the contrary, they 
are even scarcely reckoned a fault at all ; their 
very frequency prevents them from being censu- 
red, and they are often considered both necessary 
and justifiable. 

In that touching and useful tale by which 
Hawkesworth illustrates the pernicious effect of 
indirect, as well as direct, lies, " a lie put into the 
mouth of a chairman, and another lie, accompa- 
nied by WITHHOLDING OF THE WHOLE TRUTH, are 

the occasion of duel and of death.'" 

And what were these lies, direct and indirect, 
active and passive ? Simply these. The bearer of 
a note is desired to say that he comes from a mil- 
liner, when, in reality, he comes from a lady in the 
neighbourhood ; and one of the principal actors in 
the story leaves word that he is gone to a coffee- 
house, when, in point of fact, he is gone to a 
friend's house. That friend, on being questioned 
by him, withholds, or conceals part of the truth, 
meaning to deceive ; the wife of the questioner 
does the same ; and thus, though both are innocent 
even in thought, of any thing offensive to the 
strictest propriety, they become involved in the fa- 
tal consequences of imputed guilt, from which a 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 219 

disclosure of the whole truth would at police have 
preserved them. 

Now, I would ask if there be any thing more com- 
mon in the daily affairs of life, than those very lies 
and dissimulations which I have selected ? 

Who has not given, or heard given, this order, 
" do not say where you come from ;" and often ac- 
companied by "if you are asked, say you do not 
know, or you come from such a place." Who 
does not frequently conceal where they have been ; 
and while they own to the questioner that they 
have been to such a place, and seen such a person, 
keep back the information that they have been to 
another place, and seen another person, though they 
are very conscious that the two latter were the real 
objects of the inquiry made ? 

Some may reply, " yes ; I do these things every 
day perhaps, and so does every one ; and where is 
the harm of it ? You cannot be so absurd as to 
believe that such innocent lies, and a concealment 
such as I have a right to indulge in, will certainly 
be visited by consequences like those imagined by 
a writer of fiction?" 

I answer, no ; but though I cannot be sure that 
fatal consequences will be the result of that impos- 
sible thing, an innocent lie, some consequences 
attend on all deviations from truth, which it were 
better to avoid. In the first place, the lying order 
given to a servant, or inferior, not only lowers the 
standard of truth in the mind of the person so com- 
manded, but it lowers the person who gives it ; it 
weakens that salutary respect with which the lower 
orders regard the higher ; servants and inferiors 
are shrewd observers ; and those domestics who de- 
tect a laxity of morals in their employers, and find 



220 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

that they do not hold truth sacred, but are ready to 
teach others to lie for their service, deprive them- 
selves of their best claims to respect and obedience 
from them, that of a deep conviction of their mo- 
ral superiority. And they who discover in their 
intimate friends and associates a systematic habit, 
an assumed and exercised right of telling only as 
much of the truth as suits their inclinations and pur- 
poses, must feel their confidence in them most pain- 
fully destroyed ; and listen, in future, to their dis- 
closures and communications with unavoidable 
suspicion, and degrading distrust. 

The account given by Boswell, of the regard paid 
by Dr. Johnson to truth on all occasions, furnishes 
us with a still better shield against deviations 
from it, than can be afforded even by the best and 
most moral fiction. For, as Longinus was said " to 
be himself the great sublime he draws," so John- 
son was himself the great example of the benefit of 
those precepts which he lays down for the edifica- 
tion of others ; and what is still more useful and 
valuable to us, he proves that however difficult it 
may be to speak the truth, and to be accurate on 
all occasions, it is certainly possible; for, as John- 
son could do it, why cannot others ? It requires 
not his force of intellect to enable us to follow his 
example ; all that is necessary is a knowledge of 
right and wrong, a reverence for truth, and an ab- 
horrence of deceit. 

Such was Johnson's known habit of telling the 
truth, that even improbable things were believed, 
if he narrated them ! Such was the respect for 
truth which his practice of it excited, and such the 
beneficial influence of his example, that all his in- 
timate companions ** were distinguished for a love 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 221 

timate companions " were distinguished for a love 
of truth, and accuracy," derived from association 
with him. 

I can never read this account of our great mo- 
ralist, without feeling my heart glow with emula- 
tion and triumph ! With emulation, because I 
know that it must be my own fault, if I become 
not as habitually the votary of truth as he himself 
w T as ; and with triumph, because it is a complete 
refutation of the common-place arguments against 
enforcing the necessity of spontaneous truth, that 
it is absolutely impossible ; and that, if possible, what 
would be gained by it ? 

What would be gained by it ? Society at large 
would, in the end, gain a degree of safety and pu- 
rity far beyond what it has hitherto known ; and, 
in the meanwhile, the individuals who speak truth 
would obtain a prize worthy the highest aspirings 
of earthly ambition,— the constant and involuntary 
confidence and reverence of their fellow creatures. 

The consciousness of truth and ingenuousness 
gives a radiance to the countenance, a freedom to 
the play of the lips, a persuasion to the voice, and 
a graceful dignity to the person, which no other 
quality of mind can equally bestow. And who is 
not able to recollect the direct contrast to this pic- 
ture exhibited by the conscious utterer of falsehood 
and disingenuousness ? Who has not observed the 
downcast eye, the snapping restless eyelid, the 
changing colour, and the hoarse, impeded voice, 
which sometimes contradict what the hesitating lip 
utters, and stamp, on the positive assertion, the un- 
doubted evidence of deceit and insincerity ? 

Those who make up the usual mass of society 
are, when tempted to its common dissimulations, 
19* 



222 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

like little boats on the ocean, which are continually 
forced to shift sail, and row away from danger; or, 
if obliged to await it, are necessitated, from want 
of power, to get on one side of the billow, instead 
of directly meeting it. While the firm votaries of 
truth, when exposed to the temptations of false- 
hood, proceed undaunted along the direct course, 
like the majestic vessel, coming boldly and directly 
on, breasting the waves in conscious security, and 
inspiring confidence in all whose well-being is 
intrusted to them. Is it not a delightful sen- 
sation to feel and to inspire confidence ? Is it not 
delightful to know, when we lie down at night, that, 
however darkness may envelope us, the sun will 
undoubtedly rise again, and chase away the gloom? 
True, he may rise in clouds, and his usual splen- 
dour may not shine out upon us during the whole 
diurnal revolution ; still, we know that, though 
there be not sunshine, there will be light, and we 
betake ourselves to our couch, confiding in the as- 
surances of past experience, that day will succeed 
to night, and light to darkness. But, is it not equal- 
ly delightful to feel this cheering confidence in the 
moral system of the circle in which we move ? And 
can any thing inspire it so much as the constant 
habit of truth in those with whom we live ? To 
know that we have friends on whom we can always 
rely for honest counsel, ingenuous reproof, and sin- 
cere sympathy, — to whom we can look with never 
doubting confidence in the night of our souPs de- 
spondency, knowing that they will rise on us like 
the cheering never-failing light of day, speaking 
unwelcome truths perhaps, but speaking them with 
tenderness and discretion, — is, surely, one of the 
dearest comforts which this world can give. It is 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 223 

the most precious of the earthly staffs, permitted 
to support us as we go, trembling, short-sighted, 
and weary pilgrims, along the chequered path of 
human existence. 

And is it not an ambition worthy of thinking and 
responsible beings to endeavour to qualify ourselves, 
and those whom we love, to be such friends as 
these 1 And if habits of unblemished truth will 
bestow this qualification, were it not wise to labour 
hard in order to attain them, undaunted by diffi- 
culty, undeterred by the sneers of worldlings, who 
cannot believe in the possibility of that moral ex- 
cellence which they feel themselves unable to ob- 
tain ? 

To you, O ye parents and preceptors ! I parti- 
cularly address myself. Guard your own lips from 
" speaking leasing," that the quickly discerning 
child or servant may not, in self-defence, set the 
force of your example against that of your pre- 
cepts. If each individual family would seriously 
resolve to avoid every species of falsehood them- 
selves, whether authorized by custom or not, and 
would visit every deviation from truth, in those ac- 
cused, with punishment and disgrace, the example 
would unceasingly spread ; for, even now, where- 
ever the beauty of truth is seen, its influence is im- 
mediately felt, and its value acknowledged. Indi- 
vidual efforts, however humble, if firm and repeat- 
ed, must be ultimately successful, as the feeble 
mouse in the fable was, at last, enabled by its 
perseverance to gnaw the cords asunder which held 
the mighty lion. Difficult, I own, would such ge- 
neral purification be ; but what is impossible to zeal 
and enterprise ? 



224 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Hercules, as fabulous but instructive story tells 
us, when he was required to perform the apparent- 
ly impossible task of cleansing the Augean stables, 
exerted all his strength, and turned the course of a 
river through them to effect his purpose, proving 
by his success, that nothing is impossible to perse- 
verance and exertion ; and, however long the du- 
ration, and wide-spreading the pollutions of false- 
hood and dissimulation in the world, there it a 
river, which, if suffered to flow over their impuri- 
ties, is powerful enough to wash away every stain, 
since it flows from the " fountain of ever-living 

WATERS," 



CHAPTER XVI. 

RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF TRUTH. 

All the moralists from whom I have quoted, 
and those on whom I have commented in the pre- 
ceding chapters, have treated the subject of truth 
as moralists only. They do not lay it down as an 
indisputable fact, that truth, as a principle of ac- 
tion, is obligatory on us all, in enjoined obedience 
to the clear dictates of revealed religion. There- 
fore, they have kept out of sight the strongest mo- 
tive to abhor lying, and cleave unto truth, obedi- 
ence to the divine will ; yet, as necessary as 
were the shield and the buckler to the ancient 
warriors, is the " breast-plate of faith" to the cause 
of spontaneous truth. It has been asserted, that 
morality might exist in all its power and purity 
were there no such thing as religion, since it is 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH, 225 

conducive to the earthly interests and happiness of 
man. But, are moral motives sufficient to protect 
us in times of particular temptations ? There ap- 
pears to me the same difference between morality, 
unprotected by religious motives, and morality de- 
rived from them, as between the palace of ice, fa- 
mous in Russian story, and a castle built of ever- 
during stone ; perfect to the eye, and, as if formed 
to last for ever, was the building of frost-work, or- 
namented and lighted up for the pleasure of the 
sovereign ; but, it melted away before the power 
of natural and artificial warmth, and was quickly 
resolved to the element from which it sjjrung. But 
the castle formed of stones joined together by a 
strong and enduring cement, is proof against all 
assailment ; and, even though it may be occasion- 
ally shattered by the enemies, it still towers in its 
grandeur, indestructible, though impaired. In like 
manner, unassailable and perfect, in appearance, 
may be the virtue of the mere moralist ; but when 
assailed by the warmth of the passions on one 
side, and by different enemies on the other, his vir- 
tue, like the palace of ice, is likely to melt away, 
and be as though it had not been. But, the virtue 
of the truly religious man, even though it may on 
occasion be slightly shaken, is yet proof against 
any important injury ; and remains, spite of temp- 
tation and danger, in its original purity and power. 
The moral man may, therefore, utter spontaneous 
truth ; but the religious man must ; for he remem- 
bers the following precepts which, amongst others, 
he has learned from the scriptures, and knows that 
to speak lies is displeasing to the god of truth. 

In the 6th chapter of Leviticus, the Lord threat- 
ens the man " Who lies to his neighbour, and who 



220 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

deceives his neighbour." Again, he says, "Ye 
shall not deal falsely, neither lie to one another." 
We read in the Psalms that " the Lord will de- 
stroy those who speak leasing." He is said to be 
angry with the wicked every day, who have con- 
ceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. " He 
that worketh deceit," says the Psalmist, "shall not 
dwell within my house — he that telleth lies shall not 
tarry in my sight." The Saviour, in the 8th chap- 
ter of John, calls the devil " a liar, and the father 
of lies." Paul, in the 3d chapter of Colossians, 
says, "Lie not one to another!" Prov. vi. 19. 
" The Lord fcates a false witness that speaketh lies." 
Prov. ix. " And he that speaketh lies shall perish." 
Prov. xix. 22. " A poor man is better than a liar." 
James iii. 14. "Lie not against the truth." Isaiah 
xvii. u The Lord shall sweep away the refuge of 
lies." Prov. xviii. " Let the lying lips be put to si- 
lence." Psalm cxix. 29. " Remove from me the way 
of lying." Psalm lxiii. 11. "The mouth that speak- 
eth lies shall be stopped." The fate of Gehazi, in the 
5th chapter of the second book of Kings, who lied 
to the prophet Elisha, and went out of his presence 
" a leper whiter than snow;" and the judgment on 
Annanias and Sapphira, in the 5th chapter of Acts, 
on the former for withholding the truth intend- 
ing to deceive, and on the latter for telling a di- 
rect lie, are awful proofs how hateful falsehood 
is in the sight of the Almighty ; and, that though 
the seasons of his immediate judgments may be 
past, his vengeance against every species of false- 
hood is tremendously certain. 

But though, as I have stated more than once, all 
persons, even those who are most negligent of 
truth, exclaim continually against lying ; and liars 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 227 

cannot forgive the slightest imputation against 
their veracity, still, few are willing to admit that 
telling lies of courtesy, or convenience, is lying ; or 
that the occasional violator of truth, for what are 
called innocent purposes, ought to be considered 
as a liar ; and thence the universal falsehood which 
prevails. And, surely, that moral precept which 
every one claims a right to violate, according to 
his wants and wishes, loses its restraining power, 
and is, as I have before observed, for all it original 
purposes, wholly annihilated. 

But, as that person has no right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
being who allows himself to indulge in any one 
species of lie, cannot declare with justice that he 
deserves not the name of a liar. The general voice 
and tenor of Scripture say "lie not at all." 

This may appear a command very difficult to 
obey, but he who gave it, has given us a still more 
appalling one ; " be ye perfect, as your Father in 
heaven is perfect." Yet, surely, he would never 
have given a command impossible for us to fulfil. 
However, be that as it may, we are to try to fulfil 
it. The drawing-master who would form a pupil 
to excellence, does not set incorrect copies before 
him, but the most perfect models of immortal art ; 
and that tyro who is awed into doing nothing by 
the perfection of his model, is not more weak than 
those who persevere in the practice of lying by the 
seeming impossibility of constantly telling the truth. 
The pupil may never be able to copy the model set 
before him, because his aids are only human and 
earthly ones. But, 

fie who hath said that « as our day our strength 



223 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

shall be ;" He whose ear is open to the softest cry 
He whom the royal psalmist called upon to deliver 
him from those " whose mouth speaketh vanity, 
and whose right hand is a right hand of falsehood ;" 
— This pure, this powerful, this perfect Being, still 
lives to listen to the supplications of all who trust 
in him ; and will, in the hour of temptation to ut- 
ter falsehood and deceit, strengthen them out of 
Zion. 

In ail other times of danger, the believer suppli- 
cates the Lord to grant him force to resist tempta- 
tion ; but, whoever thinks of supplicating him to be 
enabled to resist daily temptation to w 7 hat is called 
little, or white lying ? Yet, has the Lord revealed 
to us what species of lying he tolerates, and what 
he reproves ? Does he tell us that we may tell the 
lie of courtesy and convenience, but. avoid all 
others ? The lying of Ananias was only the passive 
lie of concealing that he had kept back part of his 
ozon property, yet he was punished with instant 
death ! The only safety is in believing, or remem- 
bering, that all lying and insincerity whatever is re- 
bellion against the revealed will of the great God 
of Truth ; and they who so believe, or remember, 
are prepared for the strongest attacks of the soul's 
adversary, " that devil, who is the father of lies ;" 
for their weapons are derived from the armoury of 
heaven ; their steps are guided by light from the 
sanctuary, and the cleansing river by which they 
are enabled to drive away all the pollutions of 
falsehood and deceit, is that pure river of " the 
water of life, flowing from the throne of God, and 
of the Lamb." 

I trust that I have not in any of the preceding 
pages underrated the difficulty of always speaking 



HELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 229 

the truth ; — I have only denied that it was impossi- 
ble to do so, and I have pointed out the only means 
by which the possibility of resisting the temptation 
to utter falsehood might be secured to us on all 
occasions ; namely, religious motives derived from 
obedience to the will of God. 

Still, in order to prove how well aware I am of 
the difficulty in question, I shall venture to bring 
forward some distinguished instances on record of 
holy men, who were led by the fear of death and 
other motives to lie against their consciences ; 
thereby exhibiting, beyond a doubt, the difficulty of 
a constant adherence to the practice of sincerity. 
But they also prove that the real Christian must be 
miserable under a consciousness of having violated 
the truth, and that to escape from the most 
poignant of all pangs, the pang of self-reproach, 
the delinquents in question sought for refuge from 
their remorse, by courting that very death which 
they had endeavoured to escape from by being 
guilty of falsehood. They at the same time fur- 
nish convincing proofs that it is in the power of 
the sincere penitent to retrace his steps, and be 
reinstated in the height of virtue whence he has 
fallen, if he will humble himself before the great 
Being whom he has offended, and call upon Him 
who can alone save to the uttermost. 

My first three examples are taken from the 
martyred reformers, who were guilty of the most 
awful species of lying, in signing recantations of 
their opinions, even when their belief in them re- 
mained unchanged ; but who, as I have before ob- 
served, were compelled by the power of that word 
of God written on the depth of the secret heart, to 
repent with agonizing bitterness of their apostacy 
20 



230 ILLUSTRATIONS OT LYING. 

from truth, and to make a public reparation for 
their short-lived error, by a death of patient suffer- 
ing, and even of rejoicing. 

Jerome of Prague comes first upon the list. 
He was born at the close of the thirteenth centu- 
ry; and in the year 1415, after having spent his 
youth in the pursuit of knowledge at the greatest 
Universities in Europe, — namely, those of Prague, 
Paris, Heidelberg, and Cologne, — we find him 
visiting Oxford, at which place he became ac- 
quainted with the works of Wickliffe; and, at his 
return to Prague, he not only professed himself an 
open favourer of the doctrines of that celebrated 
reformer ; but, finding that John Huss was at the 
head of Wickliffe 's party in Bohemia, he attached 
himself immediately to that powerful leader. It 
were unnecessary for me to follow him through 
the whole of his polemical career, as it is the close 
of it only which is fitted for my purpose ; suffice, 
that having been brought before the Council of 
Constance, in the year 1415, to answer for what 
they deemed his heresies, a thousand voices call- 
ed out, even after his first examination, " away 
with him ! burn him ! burn him ! burn him I' 1 
On which, little doubting that his power and 
virtuous resistance could ever fail him in time 
of need, Jerome replied, looking round on the 
assembly with dignity and confidence, " Since 
nothing can satisfy you but my blood, God's will 
be done !" 

Severities of a most uncommon nature were 
now inflicted on him, in order to constrain him to 
recant, a point of which the council were exces 
sively desirous. So rigorous was his confine- 
ment, that at length it brought upon him a dan- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 231 

gerous illness, in the course of which he entreated 
to have a confessor sent to him ; but he was given 
to understand, that only on certain terms would 
this indulgence be granted ; notwithstanding, he 
remained immoveable. The next attempt on his 
faithfulness was after the martyrdom of Huss ; 
when all its affecting and appalling details were 
made known to him, he listened, however, with- 
out emotion, and answered in language so reso- 
lute and determined, that they had certainly no 
hope of his sudden conversion. But, whether too 
confident in his own strength, he neglected to 
seek, as he had hitherto done, that only strength 
"which cometh from above," it is certain that his 
constancy at length gave way. " He withstood," 
says Gilpin, in his Lives of the Reformers, " the 
simple fear of death ; but imprisonment, chains, 
hunger, sickness, and torture, through a succes- 
sion of months, was more than human nature could 
bear; and though he still made a noble stand for 
the truth, when brought three times before the in- 
furiated council, he began at last to waver, and to 
talk obscurely of his having misunderstood the ten- 
dency of some of the writings of Huss. Promises 
and threats were now redoubled upon him, till, at 
last, he read aloud an ample recantation of all the 
opinions that he had recently entertained, and de- 
clared himself in every article a firm believer with 
the church of Rome." 

But with a heavy heart he retired from the 
council ; chains were removed from his body, 
but his mind was corroded by chains of his con- 
science, and his soul was burthened with a load, 
till then unknown to it. Hitherto, the light of an 
approving conscience had cheered the gloom of 



232 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

his dungeon, but now all was dark to him both 
without and within. 

But in this night of his moral despair, the day- 
spring from on high was again permitted to visit 
him, and the penitent was once more enabled to 
seek assistance from his God. Jerome had long 
been apprized that he was to be brought to a se- 
cond trial, upon some new evidence which had ap- 
peared ; and this was his only consolation in the 
midst of his painful penitence. At length, the mo- 
ment so ardently desired by him arrived ; and, re- 
joicing at an opportunity of publicly retracting his 
errors, and deploring his unworthy falsehood, he 
eagerly obeyed the summons to appear before the 
council in the year 1416. There, after delivering 
an oration, whicli was, it is said, a model of pathe- 
tic eloquence, he ended by declaring before the 
whole assembly, "that though the fear of death, 
and the prevalence of human infirmity, had indu- 
ced him to retract those opinions with his lips which 
had drawn on him the anger and vengeance of the 
council, yet they were then and still the opinions 
near and dear to his heart, and that he solemnly 
declared they were opinions in which he alone be- 
lieved, and for which he was ready, and even glad 
to die.'" " It was expected,*' says Pogge the Flo- 
rentine, who was present at his examination, "that 
lie would have retracted his errors ; or, at least, 
have apologized for them ; but he plainly declared 
that he had nothing to retract.' 5 " After launching 
forth into the most eloquent encomiums on Huss, 
declaring him to be a wise and holy man, and la- 
menting his unjust and cruel death, he avowed that 
he had armed himself with a firm resolution to fol- 
low the steps of that blessed martyr, and suffer with 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 235 

he would not oblige him, contrary to his inclina- 
tions, to treat him with severity." 

The man whom fear was not able to move, was 
not proof against the language of affectionate per- 
suasion. " Bilney could not withstand the winning 
rhetoric of Tunstall, though he withstood the 
menaces of Warham." He therefore recanted, 
bore a faggot on his shoulders in the Cathedral 
church of Paul, bare-headed, according to the cus- 
tom of the times, and was dismissed with Latimer 
and the others, who had met with milder treat- 
ment and easier terms." 

The liberated heretics, as they were called, re- 
turned directly to Cambridge, where they were 
received with open arms by their friends ; but in 
the midst of this joy, Bilney kept aloof, bearing on 
his countenance the marks of internal suffering and 
incessant gloom. " He received the congratula- 
tions of his officious friends with confusion and 
blushes ;" he had sinned against his God, therefore 
he could neither be gratified nor cheered by the 
affection of any earthly being. In short, his mind 
at length preying on itself, nearly disturbed his 
reason, and his friends dared not allow him to be 
left alone, either by night or day. They tried to 
comfort him ; but they tried in vain ; and when 
they endeavoured to sooth him by certain texts in 
Scripture, "it was as though a man would run him 
through with a sword." In the agonies of his de- 
spair he uttered pathetic and eager accusations of 
his friends, of Tunstall, and, above all, of himself. 
At length, his violence having had its course, it sub- 
sided, by degrees, into a state of profound melan- 
choly. In this state he continued from the year 
1629 to 1631, " reading much, avoiding company. 



236 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and, in all respects, preserving the severity of an 
ascetic." 

It is interesting to observe in how many different 
ways our souPs adversary deals with us, in order 
to allure us to perdition ; and he is never so suc- 
cessful as when he can make the proffered sin as- 
sume the appearance of what is amiable. This 
seems to have been the case with the self-judged 
Bilney. To the fear of death, and the menaces of 
Warham, we are told that he opposed a resolution 
and an integrity which could not be overcome ; 
but the gentle entreaties of affection, and the ten- 
der persuasive eloquence of Tunstall, had power 
to conquer his love of truth, and make the plead- 
ings of conscience vain : while he probably looked 
upon his yielding as a proof of affectionate grati- 
tude ; and that, not to consider the feelings of those 
who loved him, would have been offensive, and un- 
grateful hardness of heart. 

But, whatever were his motives to sin, that sin 
was indeed visited with remorse as unquestionable 
as it was efficacious ; and it is pleasant to turn 
from the contemplation of Bilney's frailty, to that 
of its exemplary and courted expiation. 

The consequences of this salutary period of sor- 
row and seclusion was, that after having, for some 
time, thrown out hints that he was meditating 
an extraordinary design ; after saying that he was 
almost prepared, that he would shortly go up to 
Jerusalem, and that God must be glorified in him; 
and keeping his friends in painful suspense by this 
mysterious language, — he told them at last that he 
was fully determined to expiate his late shameful 
abjuration, that wicked lie against his conscience, 
by death. 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 233 

constancy whatever the malice of his enemies 
should inflict ; and he was mercifully enabled to 
keep his resolution. 

When brought to the stake, and when the wood 
was beginning to blaze, he sang a hymn, which he 
continued with great fervency, till the fury of the 
fire scorching him, he was heard to cry out, " O 
Lord God ! have mercy on me !" and a little af- 
terwards, " thou knowest," he cried, " how I 
have loved thy truth ;" and he continued to exhibit 
a spectacle of intense suffering, made bearable by 
as intense devotion, till the vital spark was in mercy 
permitted to expire ; and the contrite, but then tri- 
umphant, spirit was allowed to return unto the 
God who gave it. 

Thomas Bilney, the next on my list, " was 
brought up from a child (says Fox, in his Acts and 
Monuments) in the University of Cambridge, profit- 
ing in all kind of liberal sciences, even unto the 
profession of both laws. But, at the last, having 
gotten a better school-master, even the Holy Spirit 
of Christ enduing his heart by privie inspiration with 
the knowledge of better and more wholesome 
things, he came unto this point, that forsaking the 
knowledge of man's lawes, he converted his studie 
to those things which tended more unto godlinesse 
than gainfulnesse. At the last, Bilney, forsaking 
the universitie, went into many places teaching and 
preaching, being associate with Thomas Arthur, 
which accompanied him from the universitie. The 
authoritie of Thomas Wolsey, Cardinall of York, 
at that time was greate in England, but his temper 
and pride much greater, which did evidently de- 
clare unto all wise men the manifest vanitie, not 
only of his life, but also of all the Bishops and cler- 
20 * 



234 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

gie ; whereupon, Bilney, with other good men, 
marvelling at the incredible insolence of the clergie, 
which they could no longer suffer or abide, began 
to shake and reprove this excessive pompe, and 
also to pluck at the authority of the Bishop of 
Rome.'" 

It therefore became necessary that the Cardinal 
should rouse himself and look about him. A chap- 
ter being held at Westminster for the occasion, 
Thomas Bilney, with his friends, Thomas Arthur 
and Hugh Latimer, were brought before them. 
Gilpin says, " That, as Bilney was considered as 
the Heresiarch, the rigour of the court was chiefly 
levelled against him. The principal persons at 
this time concerned in ecclesiastical affairs, besides 
Cardinal Wolsey, were Warham, Archbishop of 
Canterbury, and Tunstall, Bishop of London." 
The latter was, of all the prelates of these times, 
the most deservedly esteemed, " as he was not in- 
fluenced by the spirit of popery, and had just no- 
tions of the mild genius of Christianity ;" but, every 
deposition against Bilney was enlarged upon with 
such unrelenting bitterness, that Tunstall, though 
the president of the court, despaired of being able 
to soften, by his influence, the enraged proceedings 
of his colleagues. And, when the process came to 
an end, " Bilney, declaring himself what they called 
an obstinate heretic, was found guilty." Tunstall 
now proved the kindness of his heart. He could 
not come forward in Bilney 's favour by a judicial 
interference, but he laboured to save him by all 
means in his power. " He first set his friends upon 
him to persuade him to recant ; and when that 
would not do, he joined his entreaties to theirs ; 
had patience with him day after day, and begged 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 237 

There can be no doubt but that his friends 
again interposed to shake his resolution ; but that 
Being who had lent a gracious ear to the cry of 
his penitence and his agony, " girded up his loins 
for the fight," and enabled him to sacrifice every 
human affection at the foot of the cross, and 
strengthened him to take up that cross, and bear 
it, imfainting, to the end. lie therefore broke from 
all his Cambridge ties, and set out for Norfolk, the 
place of his nativity, and which, for that reason, he 
chose to make the place of his death. 

When he arrived there, he preached openly in 
fields, confessing his fault, and preaching publicly 
that doctrine which he had before abjured, to be 
the very truth, and willed all men to beware by 
him, and never to trust to their fleshly friends in 
causes of religion ; and so setting forward in his 
journey towards the celestial Jerusalem, lie depart- 
ed from thence to the Anchresse in Norwich, (whom 
he had converted to Christ,) and there gave her a 
New Testament of TindaPs translation, and " the 
obedience of a christian-man ;" whereupon he was 
apprehended, and carried to prison. 

Nixe, (the blind Bishop Nixe, as Fox calls him,) 
the then Bishop of Norwich, was a man of a fierce 
inquisitorial spirit, and he lost no time in sending 
up for a writ to burn him. 

In the meanwhile, great pains were taken by 
divers religious persons to re-convert him to what 
his assailants believed to be the truth; but he 
having " planted himselfe upon the firm rocke of 
God's word, was at a point, and so continued to 
the end." 

While Bilney lay in the county gaol, waiting the 
arrival of the writ for his execution, he entirely re- 



238 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN6. 

covered from that melancholy which had so long 
oppressed him ; and " like an honest man who 
had long lived under a difficult debt, he began to 
resume his spirits when he thought himself in a sit- 
uation to discharge it." — Gilpin's Lives of the Re- 
formers, p. 358. 

" Some of his friends found him taking a hearty 
supper the night before his execution, and express- 
ing their surprise, he told them he was but doing 
what they had daily examples of in common life ; 
he was only keeping his cottage in repair while he 
continued to inhabit it." The same composure 
ran through his whole behaviour, and his conversa- 
tion was more agreeable that evening than they had 
ever remembered it to be. 

Some of his friends put him in mind " that 
though the fire which he should suffer the next day 
should be of great heat unto his body, yet the com- 
fort of God's Spirit should coole it to his everlast- 
ing refreshing/'' At this word the said Thomas 
Bilney putting his hand toward the flame of the 
candle burning before them, (as he also did divers 
times besides,) and feeling the heat thereof, "Oh!" 
said he, " I feel by experience, and have knowne 
it long by philosophic, that fire by God's ordinance 
is naturally hot, but yet I am persuaded, by God's 
holy word, and by the experience of some spoken 
of in the same, that in the flame they felt no heate, 
and in the fire they felt no consumption : and I 
constantly believe that, howsoever the stubble of 
this my bodie shall be wasted by it, yet my soule 
and spirit shall be purged thereby ; a paine for the 
time, whereon, notwithstanding, followeth joy un- 
speakable." He then dwelt much upon a passage 
in Isaiah. " Fear not, for I have redeemed thee, 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 239 

and called thee by thy name. Thou art mine own ; 
when thou passest through the waters, I will be 
with thee ; when thou walkest in the fire, it shall 
not burn thee, and the flame shall not kindle upon 
thee ; for I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of 
Israel.' ' 

" He was led to the place of execution* without 
the citie gate, called Bishop's gate, in a low valley, 

* " In the Lollard's pit, I find that many persons of a sect, 
Known by the name of Lollards, in the city of Norwich, were 
thrown, after being burnt, in the year 1424, and for many 
years afterwards ; and thence it was called the Lollard's pit : 
and the following account of the meaning of the term Lol- 
lard may not be unacceptable. Soon after the commence- 
ment of the 14th century, the famous sect of the Cellite bre- 
thren and sisters arose at Antwerp : they were also styled the 
Alexian brethren and sisters, because St. Alexius was their 
patron ; and they were named Cellites, from the cells in 
which they were accustomed to live. As the clergy of this 
age took little care of the sick and the dying, and deserted 
such as were infected with those pestilential disorders which 
were then very frequent, some compassionate and pious 
persons at Antwerp formed themselves into a society for the 
performance of those religious offices which the sacerdotal or- 
ders so shamefully neglected. In the prosecution of this 
agreement, they visited and comforted the sick, assisted the 
dying with their prayers and exhortations, took care of the 
interment of those who were cut off by the plague, and on 
that account forsaken by the terrified clergy, and committed 
them tc the grave with a solemn funeral dirge. It was with 
reference to this last office that the common people gave them 
the name of Lollards. The term Lollhard, or Lullhard, or as 
the ancient Germans wrote it, Lollert, Lullert, is compounded 
of the old German word lullen, lollan, lallen, and the well 
known termination of hard, with which many of the old High 
Dutch words end. Lollen, or Lullen, signifies to sing with a 
low voice. It is yet used in the same sense among the En- 
glish, who say lulla sleep, which signifies to sing any one into 
a slumber with a sweet indistinct voice. 

41 Lollhard, therefore, is a singer, or one who frequently 
^^nJp8. For, as the word beggen, which universally signifies 



240 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

commonly called the Lollard's pit, under Saint 
Leonard's hill." At the coming forth of the said 
Thomas Bilney out of the prison doore, one of his 
friends came to him, and with few words as he 
durst, spake to him, and prayed him, in God's be- 
half, to be constant, and to take his death as pa-i 
tiently as he could. W hereunto the said Bilney an- 
swered with a quiet and mild countenance, " ye 
'see when the marine* is entered his ship to saile on 
the troublous sea, how he is for a while tossed in 
the billows of the same, but yet in hope that he 
shall come to the quiet haven, he beareth in better 
comfort the perils which he feeleth ; so am I now 
toward this sayling ; and whatsoever stormes I shall 
feele, yet shortly after shall my ship be in the ha- 

to request any tiling fervently, is applied to devotional re- 
quests, or prayers, so the word lollen or lallen is transferred 
from a common to a sacred song", and signifies, in its most li- 
mited sense, to sing a hymn. Lollhard, therefore, in the vul- 
gar tongue of the ancient Germans, denotes a person who is 
continually praising God with a song, or singing hymns to 
his honour. 

u And as prayers and hymns are regarded as an external 
sign of piety towards God, those who were more frequently 
employed in singing hymns of praise to God than others, 
were, in the common popular language, called Loilhards. 

" But the priests and monks, heing inveterately exaspera- 
ted against these good men, endeavoured to persuade the peo- 
ple that, innocent and beneficent as the Lollards appeared to 
be, they were tainted with the most pernicious sentiments of 
a religious kind, and secretly addicted to ail sorts of vices ; 
hence the name of Lollard at length became infamous. Thus, 
by degrees, it came to pass, that any person who covered he- 
resies, or crimes, under the appearance of piety, was called a 
Lollard, so that this was not a name to denote any one par- 
ticular sect, but was formerly common to all persons and all 
sects, who were supposed to be guilty of impiety towards God, 
and the church, under an external profession of extraordina- 
ry piety." — Machine's Eccles. History, ^.355— 56. 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 241 

ten, as I doubt not thereof, by the grace of God, 
desiring you to helpe me with your prayers to the 
same effect. " 

While he kneeled upon a little ledge coming out 
of the stake, upon which he was afterwards to 
stand, that he might be better seen, he made his 
private prayers with such earnest elevation of his 
eyes and hands to heaven, " and in so good quiet 
behaviour, that he seemed not much to consider 
the terror of his death," ending his prayer with the 
43d Psalm, in which he repeated this verse thrice, 
M Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord ! 
for in thy sight shall no man living be justified ;" 
and so finishing the psalm, he concluded. u Nor 
did that God in whom he trusted forsake him in 
the hour of his need ; while the flames raged around 
him, he held up his hands and knocked upon his 
breast, crying, * Jesus,' and sometimes 6 Credo,' 
till he gave up the ghost, and his body being wi- 
thered, bowed downward, upon the chaine, while, 
triumphing over death, (to use the words of the 
poet laureate,) he rendered up his soul in the ful- 
ness of faith, and entered into his reward." 

" So exemplary," says Bloomfield, in his History 
of Norwich, " was Bilney's life and conversation, 
that when Nixe, his persecutor, was constantly told 
how holy and upright he was, he said he feared 
that he had burnt Abel" 

I have recently visited the Lollard's pit: that 
spot where my interesting martyred countryman 
met his dreadful death. The top of the hill re- 
tains, probably, much the same appearance as it 
had when he perished at its foot ; and, without any 
great exertion of fancy, it would have been easy 
for me to figure to myself the rest of the scene, 
21 



242 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

could I have derived sufficient comfort from the 
remembrance of the fortitude with which he bore 
his sufferings, to reconcile me to the contemplation 
of them. Still, it is, I believe, salutary to visit the 
places hallowed in the memory, as marked by any 
exhibition of virtuous acts and sufferings endured 
for the sake of conscience. To the scaffold, and 
to the stake, on account of their religious opinions, 
it is humbly to be hoped that christians will never 
again be brought. But all persecution, on the 
score of religion is, in a degree, an infliction of 
martyrdom on the mind and on the heart. It mat- 
ters not that we forbear to kill the body of the 
christian, if we afflict the soul by aught of a perse- 
cuting spirit. 

Yet does not our daily experience testify, that 
there is nothing which calls forth petty persecutions, 
and the mean warfare of a detracting spirit, so 
much as any marked religious profession ? 

And while such a profession is assailed, by ridi- 
cule on the one hand, by distrust of its motives on 
the other; while it exposes the serious christian, 
converted from the errors of former days, to the 
stigma of wild enthusiasm, or of religious hypocri- 
sy ; who shall say that the* persecuting spirit of the 
Lauds and the Bonners is not still the spirit of the 
world? Who shall say to the tried and shrinking 
souls of those who, on account of their having 
made a religious profession, are thus calumniated, 
and thus judged, the time of martyrdom is over, 
and we live in mild, and liberal, and truly Chris- 
tian days ? 

Such were the thoughts uppermost in my mind, 
while I stood, perhaps on the very spot where 
Bilney suffered, and w T here Bilney died ; and 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 243 

though I rejoiced to see that the harmless employ- 
ment of the lime-burner had succeeded to the 
frightful burning of the human form, I could not 
but sigh as I turned away, while I remembered 
that so much of an intolerant, uncandid spirit still 
prevailed amongst professed Christians, and that 
the practice of persecution still existed, though ap- 
plied in a very different manner. I could not but 
think, that many of the present generation might 
do well to visit scenes thus fraught with the recol- 
lection of martyrdom. If it be true that " our love 
of freedom would burn brighter on the plains of 
Marathon," and that our devotion " must glow 
more warmly amidst the ruins of Iona," sure am I 
that the places where the martyrs for conscience^ 
sake have passed through the portals of fire and 
agony to their God, must assist in bestowing on us 
power to endure with fortitude the mental mar- 
tyrdom which may, unexpectedly, become our por- 
tion in life ; and by recalling the sufferings of 
others, we may, meekly bowing to the hand that 
affiicts us for good, be in time enabled to bear, 
and even to love, our own. 

The last, and third on my list, is Thomas 
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was 
promoted to that See by the favour of Henry the 
Eighth, and degraded from it in consequence of 
his heretical opinions, by virtue of an order from 
the sovereign pontiff, in the reign of Queen 
Mary. " The ceremony of his degradation," says 
Gilpin, which took place at Oxford, "was per- 
formed by Thirlby, Bishop of Ely, a man recent- 
ly converted, it should seem, to Catholicism ; who, 
in Cranmer's better days, had been honoured 



244 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

with his particular friendship, and owed him many 
obligations. 

" As this man, therefore, had long been so much 
attached to the Archbishop, it was thought pro- 
per by his new friends that he should give an ex- 
traordinary test of his zeal ; for this reason the ce- 
remony of his degradation was committed to him. 
He had undertaken, however, too hard a task. 
The mild benevolence of the primate, which 
shone forth with great dignity, though he stood in 
the mock grandeur of canvas robes, struck the 
old apostate to the heart. All the past came 
throbbing to his breast, and a few repentant tears 
began to trickle down the furrows of his aged 
cheek. The Archbishop gently exhorted him not 
to suffer his private to overpower his public af- 
fections. At length, one by one, the canvas trap- 
pings were taken off, amidst the taunts and exulta- 
tions of Bonner, Bishop of London, who was pre- 
sent at the ceremony. 

" Thus degraded, he was attired in a plain 
frieze gown, the common habit of a yeoman at 
that period, and had what was then called a 
townsman's cap put upon his head. In this garb 
he was carried back to prison, Bonner crying af- 
ter him, c He is now no longer my lord! he is 
now no longer my lord !' " — Gilpirfs Lives of the 
Reformers. 

I know not what were Cranmer's feelings at 
these expressions of mean exultation from the con- 
temptible Bonner; but, I trust that he treated them, 
and the ceremony of degradation, at the time, with 
the indifference which they merited. Perhaps, 
too, he might utter within himself this serious and 
important truth, that none of us can ever be truly 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 245 

degraded, but by ourselves alone ; and this mo- 
ment of his external humiliation was, in the eyes of 
all whose esteem was worth having, one of triumph 
and honour x to the bereaved ecclesiastic. But 
what, alas ! were those which succeeded to it ? 
That period, and that alone, was the period of his 
real degradation, when, overcome by the flatteries 
and the kindness of his real and seeming friends, 
and subdued by the entertainments given him, the 
amusements offered him, and allowed to indulge 
in the "lust of the eye, and the pride of life," he 
was induced to lend a willing ear to the proposal 
of being reinstated in his former dignity, on condi- 
tion that he would conform to the present change 
of religion, and " gratify the queen by being wholly 
a catholic I" 

The adversary of man lured Cranmer, as well as 
Bilney, by the unsuspected influence of mild and 
amiable feelings, rather than the instigations of fear ; 
and he who was armed to resist, to the utmost, the 
rage and malice of his enemies, was drawn aside 
from truth and duty by the suggestions of false 
friends. 

After the confinement of a full year in the 
gloomy walls of a prison, his sudden return into 
social intercourse dissipated his firm resolves. 
That love of life returned, which he had hitherto 
conquered ; and when a paper was offered to him, 
importing his assent to the tenets of popery, his 
better resolutions gave way, and in an evil hour he 
signed the fatal scroll ! 

Cranmer's recantation was received by the po- 
pish party with joy beyond expression ; but, as all 
they wanted was to blast the reputation of a man, 
whose talents, learning and virtue, were of such 
21* 



246 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

great importance to the cause which he espoused, 
they had no sooner gained what they desired, than 
their thirst for his blood returned, and though he 
was kept in ignorance of the fate which awaited 
him, a warrant was ordered for his execution with 
all possible expedition. 

But long before the certainty of his approaching 
fate was made known to him, the self-convicted 
culprit sighed for the joy and the serenity which 
usually attend the last days of a martyr for the 
truth which he loves. 

Vainly did his friends throw over his faults the 
balm afforded by those healing words, " the spirit 
was willing, but the flesh was weak." In his own 
clear judgment he was fully convicted, while his 
days were passed in horror and remorse, and his 
nights in sleepless anguish. 

To persevere in his recantation w r as an insup- 
portable thought ; but, to retract it was scarcely 
within the verge of possibility ; but he was allowed 
an opportunity of doing so which he did not ex- 
pect, and though death was the means of it, he 
felt thankful that it was afforded him, and deemed 
his life a sacrifice not to be regarded for the attain- 
ment of such an object. 

When Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popish 
party, came to him on the twentieth of March, the 
evening preceding his intended execution, and in- 
sinuated to him his approaching fate, he spent the 
remaining part of the evening in drawing up a full 
confession of his apostacy, and of his bitter repent- 
ance, wishing to take the best opportunity to speak 
or publish it, which he supposed would be afforded 
him when he was carried to the stake ; but beyond 
his expectation, a better was provided for him. It 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 247 

was intended that he should be conveyed immedi- 
ately from his prison to the place of his execution, 
where a sermon was to be preached ; but, as the 
morning of the appointed day was wet and stormy, 
the ceremony was performed under cover. 

About nine o'clock, the Lord Williams of Thame, 
attended by the magistrates of Oxford, received 
him at the prison gate, and conveyed him to St. 
Mary's church, where he found a crowded audience 
awaiting him, and was conducted to an elevated 
place, in public view, opposite to the pulpit. If ever 
there was a broken and a contrite heart before God 
and man — if ever there was a person humbled 
in the very depths of his soul, from the conscious- 
ness of having committed sin, and of having de- 
served the extreme of earthly shame and earthly 
suffering — that man was Cranmer ! 

He is represented as standing against a pillar, 
pale as the stone against which he leaned. "It is 
doleful, 1 ' says a popish but impartial spectator, 
" to describe his behaviour during the sermon, part 
of which was addressed to him ; his sorrowful 
countenance ; his heavy cheer ; his face bedewed 
with tears ; sometimes lifting up his eyes to heaven 
in hope, sometimes casting them down to the 
earth for shame. To be brief, he was an image of 
sorrow. The dolour of his heart burst out continu- 
ally from his eyes in gushes of tears : yet he retain- 
ed ever a quiet and grave behaviour, which in- 
creased pity in men's hearts, who unfeignedly loved 
him, hoping that it had been his repentance for his 
transgressions.'''' And so it was ; though not for 
what many considered his transgressions ; but it 
was the deep contrition of a converted heart, and 
pf a subdued and penitent soul, prepared by the 



248 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

depth of human degradation and humility, to rise 
on the wings of angels, and meet in another world 
its beloved and blessed Redeemer. 

The preacher having concluded his sermon, 
turned round to the audience, and desired all who 
were present to join with him in silent prayers for 
the unhappy man before them. A solemn stillness 
ensued ; every eye and heart were instantly lifted 
up to heaven. Some minutes having been passed 
in this affecting manner, the degraded primate,who 
had also fallen on his knees, arose in all the dignity 
of sorrow, accompanied by -conscious penitence 
and Christian reliance, and thus addressed his au- 
dience. " I had myself intended to desire your 
prayers. My desires have been anticipated, and I 
return you all that a dying man can give, my sin- 
cerest thanks. To your prayers for me, let me add 
my own ! Good Christian people !" continued he, 
M my dearly beloved brethren and sisters in Christ, 
I beseech you most heartily to pray for me to Al- 
mighty God, that he will forgive me all my sins 
and offences, which are many, without number, and 
great beyond measure. But one thing grieveth my 
conscience more than all the rest ; whereof, God 
willing, I mean to speak hereafter. But, how great 
and how many soever my sinnes be, I beseech you 
to pray God, of his mercy, to pardon and forgive 
them all." He then knelt down and offered up a 
prayer as full of pathos as of eloquence ; and then 
took a paper from his bosom, and read it aloud, 
which was to the following effect : 

" It is now, my brethren, no time to dissemble 
— I stand upon the verge of life — a vast eternity be- 
fore me ; what my fears are, or what my hopes ; 
it matters not here to unfold. For one action of 



* 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 249 

my life, at least, I am accountable to the world. 
My late shameful subscription to opinions, zvhich are 
wholly opposite to my real sentiments. Before this 
congregation I solemnly declare, that the fear of 
death alone induced me to this ignominious action 
— that it hath cost me many bitter tears — that, in 
my heart, I totally reject the Pope, and doctrines 
of the church of Rome, and that" — 

As he was continuing his speech, the whole as- 
sembly was in an uproar. " Stop the audacious 
heretic," cried Lord Williams of Thame. On 
which several priests and friars, rushing from dif- 
ferent parts of the church, seized, or pulled him 
from his seat, dragged him into the street, and, 
with indecent precipitation, hurried him to the 
stake, which was already prepared. 

As he stood with all the horrid apparatus of 
death around him, amidst taunts, revilings, and ex- 
ecrations, he alone maintained a dispassionate be- 
haviour. Having discharged his conscience, he 
seemed to feel, even in his awful circumstances, an 
inward satisfaction, to which he had long been a 
stranger. His countenance was not fixed, as be- 
fore, in sorrow on the ground ; but he looked 
round him with eyes full of sweetness and benigni- 
ty, as if at peace with all the world.'" 

Who can contemplate the conduct of Cranmer, 
in the affecting scene that followed, without feeling 
a deep conviction of the intensity of his penitence 
for the degrading lie, of which he had been guilty ! 
and who can fail to think that Cranmer, in his 
proudest days, when the favourite, the friend, the 
counsellor of a king, and bearing the highest eccle- 
siastical rank in the country, was far inferior in real 
dignity and real consequence to Cranmer, when 



2S0 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

prostrate in soul before his offended, yet pardoning 
God, but erect and fearless before his vindictive 
enemies, he thrust the hand, with which he had 
signed the lying scroll of his recantations, into the 
fast-rising flames, crying out as he did so, " this 
hand hath offended ! this hand hath offended !" 

It is soothing to reflect, that his sufferings were 
quickly over ; for, as the fire rose fiercely round 
him, he was involved in a thick smoke, and it was 
supposed that he died very soon. 

" Surely," says the writer before quoted, " his 
death grieved every one : his friends sorrowed for 
love ; his enemies for pity ; and strangers through 
humanity." 

To us of these latter days, his crime and his peni- 
tence afford an awful warning, and an instructive 
example. 

The former proves how vain are talents, learn- 
ing, and even exalted virtues, to preserve us in the 
path of rectitude, unless we are watchful unto 
prayer, and unless, wisely distrustful of our own 
strength, we wholly and confidently lean upon 
" that rock, which is higher than we are." And the 
manner in which he was enabled to declare his 
penitence and contrition for his falsehood and apos- 
tacy, and to bear the tortures which attended oft 
his dying hours, is a soothing and comforting evi- 
dence, that sinners, who prostrate themselves with 
contrite hearts before the throne of their God, and 
their Redeemer, " he will in no wise cast out," 
but will know his Almighty arm to be round about 
them, "till death is swallowed up in victory." 

It is with a degree of fearfulness and awe, that I 
take my fourth example from one who, relying too 
much on his own human strength, in his hour of 



RELI0ION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 231 

human trial, was permitted to fall into the commis- 
sion of human frailty, and to utter the most decided 
and ungrateful of falsehoods ; since he that thus 
erred was no less a person than the apostle Peter 
himself, who, by a thrice-told lie, denied his Lord 
and Master ; hut who, by his bitter tearful repen- 
tance, and by his subsequent faithfulness unto 
death, redeemed, in the eyes both of his Saviour 
and of men, his short-lived frailty, and proved him- 
self worthy of that marked confidence in his active 
zeal, which was manifested by our great Redeemer, 
in his parting words. 

The character of Peter affords us a warning, as 
well as an example, while the affectionate reproofs 
of the Saviour, together with the tender encourage- 
ment, and generous praise, which he bestowed up- 
on him, prove to us, in a manner the most cheering 
and indisputable, how merciful are the dealings of 
the Almighty with his sinful creatures ; how ready 
he is to overlook our offences, and to dwell with 
complacency on our virtues ; and that " he willeth 
not the death of a sinner, but had rather that he 
should turn from his wickedness and live.^ 

Self-confidence, and self-righteousness, proceed- 
ing perhaps from his belief in the superior depth 
and strength of his faith in Christ, seem to have 
been the besetting sins of Peter ; and that his faith 
was lively and sincere, is sufficiently evidenced by 
his unhesitating reply to the questions of his Lord : 
" Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God !" 
A reply so satisfactory to the great Being whom he 
addressed, that he answered him, saying, "Blessed 
art thou, Simon Barjona ; for flesh and blood have 
not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is 
in Heaven ; and I say unto thee, that thou art Pe* 



252 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ter ; and upon this rock will I build my church, and 
the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." 

It seems as if Peter became, from this assurance, 
so confident in his own strength, that he neglected 
to follow his master's injunction, " Watch and 
pray, lest ye enter into temptation ;" and therefore 
became an easy victim to the first temptation 
which beset him : for soon after, with surprising 
confidence in his own wisdom, we find him rebuk- 
ing his Lord, and asserting, that the things which 
he prophesied concerning himself should not hap- 
pen unto him. On which occasion the Saviour 
says, addressing the adversary of Peter's soul, then 
powerful within him, "Get thee behind me, Satan! 
thou art an offence to me !" His want of implicit 
faith on this occasion was the more remarkable, 
because he had just before uttered that strong 
avowal of his confidence in Christ, to which I have 
already alluded. 

In an early part of the history of the Gospel, we 
read that Peter, beholding the miraculous draught 
of fishes, fell on his knees, and exclaimed, in the 
fulness of surprise and admiration, and in the 
depth of conscious sinfulness and humility, "Depart 
from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord I" 

On a subsequent occasion, ever eager as he was 
to give assurances of what he believed to be his 
undoubting faith, we find him saying to the Saviour, 
when he had removed the terror of his disciples at 
seeing him walking on the sea, by those cheering 
words, u It is I, be not afraid !" — "Lord ! if it be 
thou, bid me come to thee on the water!" — And 
he walked on the water to come to Jesus ; 
but, when he saw the wind boisterous, he was 
again afraid^ and beginning to sink, he cried, say- 



MLIGION THE EASIS OF TRUTH. 253 

ing, " Lord save me !" Immediately, Jesus 
stretched forth his hand and caught him, saying 
unto him, " O thou of little faith, wherefore didst 
thou doubt?" The first of these facts shows the 
great sensibility of his nature, and his exemplary 
aptitude to acknowledge and admire every proof 
of the power and goodness of his Redeemer : and 
the second is a further corroborating instance of 
his eager confidence in his own courage and be- 
lief, followed by its accustomed falling off in the 
hour of trial. 

His unsubmitted and self-confident spirit shows 
itself again in his declaration, that Christ should not 
wash his feet ; as if he still set his human wisdom 
against that of the Redeemer, till, subdued by the 
Saviour's reply, he exclaims, "not my feet only, 
but also my hands and my head." 

The next instance of the mixed character of 
Peter, and of the solicitude which it excited in our 
Saviour, is exhibited by the following address to 
him : " And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, be- 
hold ! Satan hath desired to have thee, that he 
may sift thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for 
thee, (added the gracious Jesus,) that thy faith fail 
not ; and when thou art converted, strengthen thy 
brethren.'" Peter replied, in the fulness of self-con- 
fidence, "Lord, I am ready to go with thee into 
prison, and unto death !" And he said, " I tell 
thee, Peter, that before the cock crows, thou shalt 
deny me thrice." It does not appear what visible 
effect this humiliating prophecy had on him to 
whom it was addressed, though Matthew says that 
he replied, " though I should die with thee, still I 
will not deny thee ;" but it is probable, that by 
drawing his sword openly in his defence, when 
22 



254 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

they came out " with swords and with staves to take 
him, 1 ' he hoped to convince his Lord of his fide- 
lity. But this action was little better than one 
of mere physical courage, the result of sudden ex- 
citement at the time ; and was consistent with that 
want of moral courage, that most difficult courage 
of a//, which led him, Avhen the feelings of the mo- 
ment had subsided, to deny his master, and to ut- 
ter the degrading lie of fear. After he had thus 
sinned, the Lord turned and looked upon Peter ; 
and Peter remembered the words of the Lord, how 
he had said unto him, 'Before the cock crow, thou 
shalt deny me thrice.' And Peter went out and 
wept bitterly.*' 

It seems as if that self-confidence, that blind 
trusting in one's own strength, that tendency which 
we all have to believe, like Hazael, that we can 
never fall into certain sins, and yield to certain 
temptations, was conquered, for a while, in the 
humble, self-judged, and penitent apostle. Per- 
haps the look of mild reproach which the Sa- 
viour gave him was long present to his view, and 
that, in moments of subsequent danger to his 
truth, those eyes seemed again to admonish him, 
and those holy lips to utter the salutary and saving 
precept, " watch and pray, lest ye enter into 
temptation. ,, 

Nevertheless, rendered too confident, probably, 
in his own unassisted strength, we find him sinning 
once more in the same way ; namely, from fear of 
man ; for, being convinced that the Mosaic law was 
no longer binding on the conscience, he ate and 
drank freely at Antioch with the Gentiles ; but, 
when certain Jewish converts were sent to him 
from the apostle James, he separated from the Gen- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 255 

tiles, lest he should incur the censure of the Jews ; 
being thus guilty of a sort of practical lie, and set- 
ting those Jews, as it proved, a most pernicious ex- 
ample of dissimulation ; for which disingenuous 
conduct the apostle Paul publicly and justly repro- 
ved him before the whole Church. But, as there is 
no record of any reply given by Peter, it is proba- 
ble that he bore the rebuke meekly ; humbled, no 
doubt, in spirit, before the great Being whom he 
had again offended ; and not only does it seem 
likely that he met this public humiliation with silent 
and Christian forbearance, but, in his last Epistle, 
he speaks of Paul, " as his beloved brother," ge- 
nerously bearing his powerful testimony to the wis- 
dom contained in his Epistles, and warning the 
hearers of Paul against rejecting aught in them 
which, from want of learning, they may not under- 
stand, and " therefore wrest them, as the unlearn- 
ed and unstable do also the other Scriptures, to 
their own destruction." 

The closing scene of this most interesting apos- 
tle's life, we have had no means of contemplating, 
though the Saviour's last affecting and pathetic 
address to him, in which he prophecies that he will 
die a martyr in his cause, makes one particularly 
desirous to procure details of it. 

" So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon 
Peter, ; Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more 
than these V He saith unto him, c Yea, Lord, 
thou knowest that 1 love thee.' He saith unto him, 
6 Feed my lambs V He saith unto him again the 
second time, c Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou 
me V He saith unto him, ' Yea, Lord ! thou 
knowest that I love thee.' He saith unto him, 
4 feed my sheep !' He saith unto him the third 



256 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

time, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me V 
Peter was grieved because he said unto him the 
third time, Lovest thou me ? and he said unto him, 
1 Lord, thou knowest that I love thee.' Jesus saith 
unto him, ' Feed my sheep. Verily, verily, I say 
unto thee, when thou wast young, thou girdedst 
thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest ; but 
when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy 
hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee 
whither thou wouldest not.' This spake he, signi- 
fying by what death he should glorify God ; and 
when he had spoken this, he saith unto him, follow 
me!" 

" The case of Peter," says the pious and learn- 
ed Scott, in his Notes to the Gospel of John, " re- 
quired a more particular address than that of the 
other apostles, in order that both he and others 
might derive the greater benefit from his fall and 
his recovery. Our Lord, therefore, asked him by 
his original name, as if he had forfeited that of 
peter by his instability, whether he loved him more 
than these. The latter clause might be interpret- 
ed of his employment and gains as a fisherman, 
and be considered as a demand whether he loved 
Jesus above his secular interests ; but Peter's an- 
swer determines us to another interpretation. He 
had, before his fall, in effect, said that he loved his 
Lord more than the other disciples did ; for he had 
boasted that though all men should forsake him, 
yet would not he. Jesus now asked whether he 
would stand to this, and aver that he loved him 
more than the others did. To this he answered 
modestly by saying, " thou knowest that I love 
thee," without professing to love him more than 
others. Our Lord, therefore, renewed his appoint 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 257 

ment to the ministerial and apostolical office; at 
the same time commanding him to feed his lambs, 
or his little lambs, even the least of them ; for the 
word is diminutive : this intimated to him that his 
late experience of his own weakness ought to ren- 
der him peculiarly condescending, complaisant, 
tender, and attentive to the meanest and feeblest 
believers. As Peter had thrice denied Christ, so 
he was pleased to repeat the same question a third 
time : this grieved Peter, as it reminded him that 
he had given sufficient cause for being thus repeat- 
edly questioned concerning the sincerity of his love 
to his Lord. Conscious, however, of his integrity, 
he more solemnly appealed to Christ, as knowing 
all things, even the secrets of his heart, that he knew 
he loved him with cordial affection, notwithstand- 
ing the inconsistency of his late behaviour. Our 
Lord thus tacitly allowed the truth of his profes- 
sion, and renewed his charge to him to feed his 
sheep." 

u Peter," continues the commentator, " had 
earnestly professed his readiness to die with Christ, 
yet had shamefully failed when put to the trial ; but 
our Lord next assured him that he would at length 
be called on to perform that engagement, and sig- 
nified the death by which he would, as a martyr for 
his truth, glorify God." No doubt that this infor- 
mation, however awful, was gratefully received by 
the devoted, ardent, though, at times, the unstable, 
follower of his beloved Master ; as it proved the 
Saviour's confidence in him, notwithstanding all 
his errors. 

There was, indeed, an energy of character in 
Peter, which fitted him to be an apostle and a 
martyr. He was the questioning, the observing, 
22* 



258 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

the conversing disciple. The others were probably 
withheld by timidity from talking with their Lord, 
and putting frequent questions to him ; but Peter 
was the willing spokesman on all occasions ; and 
to him we owe that impressive lesson afforded us 
by the Saviour's reply, when asked by him how of- 
ten he was to forgive an offending brother, " I say 
not unto thee until seven times, but unto seventy 
times seven." 

But whether we contemplate Peter as an exam- 
ple, or as a warning, in the early part of his reli- 
gious career, it is cheering and instructive, indeed, 
to acquaint ourselves with him in his writings, when 
he approached the painful and awful close of it. 
When, having been enabled to fight a good fight, 
in fulfilment of his blessed Lord's prayer, that " his 
faith might not fail ;" and having been " converted 
himself," and having strengthened his brethren, he 
addressed his last awfully impressive Epistle to his 
Christian brethren, before he himself was sum- 
moned to that awful trial, after which he was to re- 
ceive the end of " his faith," even " the salvation 
of his soul!" Who can read, without trembling 
awe, his eloquent description of the day of judg- 
ment ; " that day," which, as he says, " will come 
like a thief in the night, in the which the heavens 
shall pass away with a great noise, and the ele- 
ments shall melt with fervent heat ; and the works 
that are therein shall be burned up ;" while he adds 
this impressive lesson, " seeing then that all these 
things shall be dissolved, what manner of persons 
ought ye to be in all holy conversation and godli- 
ness ?" And who can contemplate, without affec- 
tionate admiration, the undoubting, but unf taring, 
certainty with which he speaks of his approaching 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 259 

death, as foretold by our Lord ; " knowing," said 
he, " that shortly I must put off this my taber- 
nacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ has showed us." 

Soon after he had thus written, it is probable that 
he repaired to the expected scene of his suffering, 
and met his doom — met it undoubtedly, as became 
one taught by experience, to know his own recur- 
ring weakness, admonished often by the remem- 
brance of that eye which had once beamed in 
mild reproof upon him ; but which, I doubt not, he 
beheld in the hour of his last trial and dying ago- 
nies, fixed upon him with tender encouragement 
and approving love ; while, in his closing ear, 
seemed once again to sound the welcome promised 
to the devoted follower of the cross, " well done, 
good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy 
of thy Lord." 

We, of these latter days, can see the founder of 
our religion only in the record of his word, and 
hear him only in his ever-enduring precepts ; but, 
though we hear him not externally with our ears, 
he still speaks in the heart of us all, if we will but 
listen to his purifying voice ; and though the look 
of his reproachful eye can be beheld by us only 
with our mental vision, still, that eye is continually 
over us ; and when, like the apostle, we are tempt- 
ed to feel too great security in our own strength, 
and to neglect to implore the assistance which 
cometh from above, let us recal the look which Je- 
sus gave to the offending Peter, and remember 
that the same eye, although unseen, is watching 
and regarding us still. 

Oh ! could we ever lie, even upon what are call- 
ed trifling occasions, if we once believed the cer- 
tain, however disregarded, truth, that the Lord 



260 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

takes cognizance of every species of falsehood, and 
that the eye, which looked the apostle into shame 
and agonizing contrition, beholds our lying lips with 
the same indignation with which it reproved him, 
reminding us that " all liars shall have their part 
in the lake that burnetii with fire and brimstone," 
and that without the city of life is " whosoever 
loveth and maketh a lie." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

I shall not give many individual instances of 
those whom even the fear of death has not been 
able to terrify into falsehood, because they were 
supported in their integrity by the fear of God ; but 
such facts are on record. The history of the pri- 
mitive christians contains many examples both of 
men and women, whom neither threats nor bribes 
could induce for a moment to withhold or falsify 
the truth, or to conceal their newly-embraced opi- 
nions, though certain that torture and death would 
be the consequence ; fearless and determined be- 
ings, who, though their rulers, averse to punish 
them, would gladly have allowed their change to 
pass unnoticed, persisted, like the prophet Daniel, 
openly to display the faith that was in them, ex- 
claiming at every interrogatory, and in the midst of 
tortures and of death, " we are christians ; we are 
christians !" Some martyrs of more modern days, 
Catholics, as well as Protestants, have borne the 
same unshaken testimony to what they believed to 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 261 

be religious truth ; but Latimer, more especially, 
was so famous amongst the latter, not only for the 
pureness of his life, but for the sincerity and good- 
ness of his evangelical doctrine, (which, since the 
beginning of his preaching, had, in all points been 
conformable to the teaching of Christ and of his 
apostles,) that the very adversaries of God's truth, 
with all their menacing words and cruel imprison- 
ment, could not withdraw him from it. But, what- 
soever he had once preached, he valiantly defended 
the same before the world without fear of any mor- 
tal creature, although of never so great power and 
high authority ; wishing and minding rather to suf- 
fer not only loss of worldly possessions, but of life* 
than that the glory of God, and the truth of Christ's. 
Gospel, should in any point be obscured or defaced, 
through him. Thus this eminent person exhibit- 
ed a striking contrast to that fear of man, which 
is the root of all lying, and all dissimulation ; that 
mean, grovelling, and pernicious fear, which every 
day is leading us either to disguise or withhold our 
real opinion, if not to be absolutely guilty of ut- 
tering falsehood, and which induces us but too often 
to remain silent, and ineffective, even when the. 
oppressed and the insulted require us to speak in 
their defence, and when the cause of truth and of 
righteousness is injured by our silence. The ear- 
ly Friends were exemplary instances of the pow- 
er of faith to lift the Christian above all fear of 
man ; and not only George Fox himself, but ma- 
ny of his humblest followers, were known to be. 
persons " who would rather have died than spoken cz 
lie." 

There was one female Friend, amongst others, 
of the name of Mary Dyar, who, after undergoing 



562 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

some persecution for the sake of her religious 
tenets at Boston, in America, was led to the gal- 
lows between two young men condemned, like 
herself, to suffer for conscience 1 sake ; but having 
seen them executed, she was reprieved, carried 
back to prison, and then, being discharged, was 
permitted to go to another part of the country ; 
but, apprehending it to be her duty to return to 
11 the bloody town of Boston," she was summoned 
before the general court. On her appearance 
there, the governor, John Endicott, said, " Are 
you the same Mary Dyar that was here before?" 
And it seems he zvas preparing an evasion for her ; 
there having been anotner of that name returned 
from Old England. But she was so far from dis- 
guising the truth, that she answered undauntedly, 
" I am the same Mary Dyar that was here the last 
general court" The consequence was immediate 
imprisonment ; and, soon after, death. 

But the following narrative, which, like the pre- 
ceding one, is recorded in SewelPs History of the 
people called Quakers, bears so directly on the 
point in question, that I am tempted to give it to 
my readers in all its details. 

" About the fore part of this year, if I mistake 
not, there happened a case at Edmond's-Bury, 
which I cannot well pass by in silence ; viz. a cer- 
tain young woman was committed to prison for child- 
murder. Whilst she was in jail, it is said, William 
Bennet, a prisoner for conscience 1 sake, came to 
her, and in discourse asked her whether, during the 
course of her life, she had not many times transgress- 
ed against her conscience ? and whether she had 
not often thereupon felt secret checks and inward 
reproofs, and been troubled in her mind because of 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 268 

the evil committed ; and this he did in such a con- • 
vincing way, that she not only assented to what he 
laid before her, but his discourse so reached her 
heart, that she came clearly to see, that if she had 
not been so stubborn and disobedient to those in- 
ward reproofs, in all probability she would not have 
come to such a miserable fall as she now had ; for 
man, not desiring the knowledge of God's ways, 
and departing from him, is left helpless, and cannot 
keep himself from evil, though it may be such as 
formerly he would have abhorred in the highest de- 
gree, and have said with Hazael, "what! is thy 
servant a dog, that he should do this great thing? 1 ' 
W. Bennet thus opening matters to her, did, by his 
wholesome admonition, so work upon her mind, 
that she, who never had conversed with the Qua- 
kers, and was altogether ignorant of their doctrine, 
now came to apprehend that it was the grace of 
God that brings salvation, which she so often had 
withstood, and that this grace had not yet quite for- 
saken her, but now made her sensible of the great- 
ness of her transgression. This consideration 
wrought so powerfully, that, from a most grievous 
sinner, she became a true penitent ; and with hearty 
sorrow she cried unto the Lord, • that it might 
please him not to hide his countenance.' And 
continuing in this state of humiliation and sincere 
repentance, and persevering in supplication, she 
felt, in time, ease ; and, giving heed to the exhor- 
tations of the said Bennet, she obtained, at length, 
to a sure hope of forgiveness by the precious blood 
of the immaculate Lamb, who died for the sins of 
the world. Of this she gave manifest proofs at her 
trial before Judge Matthew Hale, who, having heard 
how penitent she was, would fain have spared her; 



564 ILLUSTRATIONS OP XVING. 

she being asked, according to the form c guilty or 
not guilty ?* readily answered, c guilty.'* This as- 
tonished the judge, and therefore he told her that 
she seemed not duly to consider what she said, 
since it could not well be believed that such a one 
as she, who, it may be, inconsiderately, had rough- 
ly handled her child, should have killed it wil- 
fully and designedly.' Here the judge opened a 
back door for her to avoid the punishment of death. 
.But now the fear of God had got so much room in 
her heart, that no tampering would do ; no fig- 
leaves could serve her for a cover ; for she knew 
now that this would have been adding sin to sin, 
and to cover herself with a covering, but not of 
God's spirit ; and therefore she plainly signified to 
the court that indeed she had committed the mis- 
chievous act intendedly, thereby to hide her shame ; 
and that having sinned thus grievously, and being 
affected now with true repentance, she could by no 
means excuse herself, but w T as willing to undergo 
the punishment the law required ; and, therefore, 
she could but acknowledge herself guilty, since 
otherwise how could she expect forgiveness from 
the Lord ? This undisguised and free confession 
being spoken with a serious countenance, did so af- 
fect the judge, that, tears trickling down his cheeks, 
he sorrowfully said, c Woman ! such a case as this 
I never met with before. Perhaps you, who are but 
young, and speak so piously, as being struck to the 
heart with repentance, might yet do much good in 
the world ; but now you force me so that, ex officio, 
I must pronounce sentence of death against you, 
since you will admit of no excuse.' Standing to 
what she had said, the judge pronounced the sen- 
tence of death : and when, afterward, she came tQ 



RELIGION THE SASiS OF TRUTH. 265 

the place of execution, she made a pathetical speech 
to the people, exhorting the spectators, especially 
those of the young, ; to have the fear of God before 
their eyes ; to give heed to his secret reproofs for 
evil, and so not to grieve and resist the good of the 
Lord, which she herself not having timely minded, 
it had made her run on in evil, and thus proceeding 
from wickedness to wickedness, it had brought her 
to this dismal exit. But, since she firmly trusted 
to God's infinite mercy, nay, surely believed her 
sins, though of a bloody dye, to be washed off by 
the pure blood of Christ, she could contentedly de- 
part this life.' Thus she preached at the gallows 
the doctrine of the Quakers, and gave heart-melt- 
ing proofs that her immortal soul was to enter into 
Paradise, as well as anciently that of the thief on 
the cross." 

The preceding chapter contains three instances 
of martyrdom, undergone for the sake of religious 
truth, and attended with that animating publicity 
which is usual on such occasions, particularly when 
the sufferers are persons of a certain rank and 
eminence in society. l 

But she who died, as narrated in the story given 
above, for the cause of spontaneous truth, and wil- 
lingly resigned her life, rather than be guilty of a 
lie to save it, though that lie was considered by the 
law of the country, and by the world at large, to be 
no lie at all ; this bright example of what a true 
and lively faith can do for us in an hour of strong 
temptation, was not only an humble, guilty wo- 
man, but a nameless one also. She was an ob- 
scure, friendless individual, whose name on earth 
seems to be nowhere recorded ; and, probably, no 
strong interest was felt for her disastrous death, ex- 
23 



266 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ccpt by the preacher who converted her, and by 
the judge who condemned her. This afflicted per- 
son was also well aware that the courage with 
which she met her fate, and died rather than utter 
a falsehood, would not be cheered and honoured 
by an anxious populace, or by the tearful farewells 
of mourning but admiring friends ; she also knew 
that her honest avowal would brand her with the 
odious guilt of murdering her child, and yet she 
persevered in her adherence to the truth ! There- 
fore, I humbly trust that, however inferior she may 
appear, in the eyes of her fellow-mertals, to martyrs 
of a loftier and more important description, this 
willing victim of what she thought her duty, offered 
as acceptable a sacrifice as theirs, in the eyes of 
her Judge and her Redeemer. 

No doubt, as I before observed, the history of 
both public and private life may afford many more 
examples of equal reverence for truth, derived from 
religious motives ; but, as the foregoing instance 
was more immediately before me, I was induced 
to give it as an apt illustration of the precept which 
I wish to enforce. 

The few, and not the many, are called upon to 
earn the honours of public martyrdom, and to shine 
like stars in the firmament of distant days ; and, in 
like manner, few of us are exposed to the danger of 
telling great and wicked falsehoods. But, as it is 
more difficult, perhaps, to bear with fortitude the 
little daily trials of life, than great calamities, be- 
cause we summon up all our spiritual and moral 
strength to resist the latter, but often do not feel it 
to be a necessary duty to bear the former with 
meekness and resignation ; so is it more difficult to 
overcome and resist temptations to every-day lying 



BEUGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 267 

and deceit, than to falsehoods of a worse descrip- 
tion ; since, while these little lies often steal on us 
unawares, and take us unprepared, we know them 
to be so trivial, that they escape notice, and to be so 
tolerated, that even if detected, they will not incur 
reproof. Still, I must again and again repeat the 
burden of my song, that moral result, which how- 
ever weakly 1 may have performed my task, I have 
laboured incessantly, through the whole of my 
work, to draw and to illustrate ; namely, that this 
little and tolerated lying, as well as great and rep- 
robated falsehood, is wholly inconsistent with the 
character of a serious Christian, and sinful in the 
eyes of the God of Truth ; that, in the daily recur- 
ring temptation to deceive, our only security is to 
lift up our soul, in secret supplication, to be pre- 
served faithful in the hour 01 danger, and always 
to remember, without any qualification of the mo- 
nitory words, that "lying lips are abomination to 
the Lord." 



CONCLUSION. 

I shall now give a summary of the didactic 
part of these observations on lying, and the princi- 
ples which, with much fearfulness and humility, I 
have ventured to lay down. 

I have stated, that if there be no other true de- 
finition of lying than an intention to deceive, with- 
holding the truth, with such an intention, partakes 
as much of the nature of falsehood as direct lies ; 
and that, therefore, lies are of two natures, active 



268 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and passive ; or, in other words, direct and in- 
direct. 

That a passive lie is equally as irreconcilable 
to moral principles as an active one. 

That the lies of vanity are of an active and 
passive nature ; and that, though we are tempted 
to be guilty of the former, our temptations to the 
latter are stronger still. 

That many, who would shrink with moral dis- 
gust from committing the latter species of false- 
hood, are apt to remain silent when their vanity is 
gratified, without any overt act of deceit on their 
part ; and are contented to let the flattering repre- 
sentation remain uncontradicted. 

That this disingenuous passiveness belongs to 
that common species of falsehood, withholding the 
truth. 

That lying is a common vice, and the habit of 
it so insensibly acquired, that many persons vio- 
late the truth, without being conscious that it is 
a sin to do so, and even look on dexterity in 
white lying, as it is called, as a thing to be proud 
of; but, that it were well to consider whether, 
if we allow ourselves liberty to lie on trivial oc- 
casions, we do not weaken our power to resist 
temptation to utter falsehoods, which may be dan- 
gerous, in their results, to our own well being, and 
that of others. 

That, if we allow ourselves to violate the truth, 
that is, deceive for any purpose whatever, who can 
say where this self-indulgence will submit to be 
bounded ? 

That those who learn to resist the daily tempta- 
tion to tell what are deemed trivial and innocent 



CONCLUSION. 269 

lies, will be better able to withstand allurements to 
serious and important deviations from truth. 

That the lies of flattery are, generally speak- 
ing, not only unprincipled, but offensive. 

That there are few persons with whom it is so 
difficult to keep up the relations of peace and amity 
as flatterers by system and habit. 

That the view taken by the flatterer of the 
penetration of the flattered is often erroneous. 
That the really intelligent are usually aware to 
how much praise and admiration they are entitled, 
be it encomium on their personal or mental quali- 
fications. 

That the lie of fear springs from the want of 
moral courage ; and that, as this defect is by no 
means confined to any class or age, the result of it, 
that fear of man, which prompts to the lie of fear, 
must be universal. 

That some lies, which are thought to be lies of 
benevolence, are not so in reality, but may be re- 
solved into lies of fear, being occasioned by a dread 
of losing favour by speaking the truth, and not by 
real kindness of heart. 

That the daily lying and deceit tolerated in soci- 
ety, and which are generally declared necessary to 
preserve good-will, and avoid offence to the self-love 
of others, are the result of false, not real* benevo- 
lence, for that those who practise it the most to 
their acquaintances when present, are only too apt 
to make detracting observations on them when they 
are out of sight. 

That true benevolence would ensure, not de- 
stroy, the existence of sincerity, as those who cul- 
tivate the benevolent affections always see the good 
qualities of their acquaintance in' the strongest 
?3* 



270 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

light, and throw their defects into shade ; that, 
consequently, they need not shrink from speaking 
truth on all occasions. That the kindness v/hich 
prompts to erroneous conduct cannot long con- 
tinue to bear even a remote connexion with real 
benevolence ; that unprincipled benevolence soon de- 
generates into malevolence. 

That, if those who possess good sense would use 
it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way of 
spontaneous truth, as they do to justify themselves 
in the practice of falsehood, the difficulty of always 
speaking the truth would in time vanish. 

That the lie of convenience — namely, the or- 
der to servants to say, "not at home," that is, 
teaching them to lie for our convenience, is, at the 
same time, teaching them to lie for their own, 
whenever the temptation offers. 

That those masters and mistresses who show 
their domestics, that they do not themselves value 
truth, and thus render the consciences of the latter 
callous to its requirings, forfeit their right, and lose 
their chance, of having servants worthy of confi- 
dence, degrade their own characters also in their 
opinions, and incur an awful guilt by endangering 
their servants' well-being here, and hereafter. 

That husbands who employ their wives, and 
wives their husbands, and that parents who employ 
their children to utter for them the lies of conve- 
nience, have no right to be angry, or surprised, if 
their wedded or parental confidence be afterwards 
painfully abused, since they have taught their fami- 
lies the habit of deceit, by encouraging them in the 
practice of what they call innocent white lying. 

That lies of interest are sometimes more ex- 
cusable, and less offensive than others, but are 



CONCLUSION. 271 

disgusting when told by those whom conscious in- 
dependence preserves from any strong temptation to 
violate truth. 

That lies of first-rate malignity, namely, 
lies intended wilfully to destroy the reputation of 
men and women, are less frequent than falsehoods 
of any other description, because the arm of the 
law defends reputations. 

That, notwithstanding, there are many persons, 
worn both in body and mind by the consciousness 
of being the object of calumnies and suspicions 
which they have not the power to combat, who 
steal broken-hearted into their graves, thankful for 
the summons of death, and hoping to find refuge 
from the injustice of their fellow-creatures in the 
bosom of their Saviour. 

That against lies of second-rate malignity 
the law holds out no protection. 

That they spring from the spirit of detraction, and 
cannot be exceeded in base and petty treachery. 

That lies of real benevolence, though the 
most amiable and respectable of all lies, are, not- 
withstanding, objectionable, and ought not to be 
told. 

That, to deceive the sick and the dying, is a de- 
reliction of principle which not even benevolence 
can excuse ; since, who shall venture to assert that 
a deliberate and wilful falsehood is justifiable ? 

That, withholding the truth with regard to the 
character of a servant, alias, the passive lie of be- 
nevolence, is a pernicious and reprehensible cus- 
tom ; that, if benevolent to the hired, it is malevo- 
lent to the person hiring, and may be fatal to the 
person so favoured. 



272 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

That the masters and mistresses who thus per- 
form what they call a benevolent action, at the ex- 
pense of sincerity, often, no doubt, find their sin 
visited on their own heads; because, if servants 
know that, owing to the lax morality of their em- 
ployers, their faults will not receive their proper 
punishment, that is, disclosure, when they are turn- 
ed away, — one of the most powerful motives to be- 
have well is removed, since those are not likely to 
abstain from sin, who are sure that they shall sin 
with impunity. 

That it would be real benevolence to tell, and 
not to withhold, the whole truth on such occasions, 
because those who hire servants so erroneously be- 
friended, may, from ignorance of their besetting 
sins, put temptations in their way to repeat their 
fault ; and may thereby expose them to incur, some 
day or other, the severest penalty of the law. 

That it is wrong, however benevolently meant, 
to conceal the whole extent of a calamity from an 
afflicted person, not only because it shows a dis- 
trust of the wisdom of the Deity, and implies that 
he is not a fit judge of the proper degree of trial to 
be inflicted on his creatures, but, because it is a 
withholding of the truth -with an intention to deceive^ 
and that such a practice is not only wrong, but in- 
expedient; as we may thereby stand between the 
sufferer and the consolation which might have been 
afforded in some cases by the very nature and in- 
tensity of the blow inflicted ; and lastly, because 
such concealment is seldom ultimately successful, 
since the truth comes out usually in the end, and 
when the sufferer is not so well able to bear it 

That lies of wantonness, are lies which are of- 



CONCLUSION. 273 

ten told for no other motive than to show the ut- 
terer's total contempt for truth ; and that there is 
no hope for the amendment of such persons, since 
they thus sin from a depraved fondness for speak- 
ing, and inventing falsehood. 

That dress affords good illustrations of practi- 
cal lies. 

That if false hair, false bloom, false eyebrows, 
and other artificial aids to the appearance, are so 
well contrived, that they seem palpably intended to 
pass for natural beauties, then do these aids of 
dress partake of the vicious nature of other lying. 

That the medical man who desires his servant 
to call him out of church, or from a party, when 
he is not wanted, in order to give him the appear- 
ance of the great business which he has not ; and 
the author who makes his publisher put second and 
third edition before a work of which, perhaps, even 
the first is not wholly sold, are also guilty of prac- 
tical lies. 

That the practical lies most fatal to others, are 
those acted by men who, when in the gulf of bank- 
ruptcy, launch out into increased splendour of liv- 
ing, in order to obtain further credit, by inducing 
an opinion that they are rich. 

That another pernicious practiced lie is acted by 
boys and girls at school, who employ their school- 
fellows to do exercises for them; or who them- 
selves do them for others ; that, by this means, 
children become acquainted with the practice of 
deceit as soon as they enter a public school ; and 
thus is counteracted the effect of those principles 
of spontaneous truth which they may have learnt 
at home. 



274 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

That lying is mischievous and impolitic, because 
it destroys confidence, that best charm and only 
cement of society ; and that it is almost impossible 
to believe our acquaintances, or expect to be be- 
lieved ourselves, when we or they have once been 
detected in falsehood. 

That speaking the truth does not imply a neces- 
sity to wound the feelings of any one. That offen- 
sive, or home truths, should never be volunteered, 
though one lays it down as a principle, that truth 
must be spoken when called for. 

That often the temporary wound given by us, on 
principle, to the self-love of others, may be attend- 
ed with lasting benefit to them, and benevolence 
in reality be not wounded, but gratified ; since the 
truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

That, were the utterance of spontaneous trdth 
to become a general principle of action in society, 
no one w r ould dare to put such questions concern- 
ing their defects as I have enumerated ; therefore, 
the difficulty of always speaking truth would be al- 
most annihilated. 

That those who, in the presence of their ac- 
quaintance, make mortifying observations on their 
personal defects, or wound their self-love in any 
other way, are not actuated by the love of truth, 
but that their sincerity is the result of coarseness of 
mind, and of the mean wish to inflict pain. 

That all human beings are, in their closets, con- 
vinced of th$ importance of truth to the interests 
of society, though few, comparatively, think the 
practice binding on them, when acting in the busy 
scene of the world. 



CONCLUSION. 275 

That we must wonder still less at the little shame 
attached to white lying, when we see it sanctioned 
in the highest assemblies in the kingdom. 

That, in the heat of political debate, in either 
house of parliament, offence is given and received, 
and the unavoidable consequence is thought to be 
apology, or duel ; that the necessity of either is 
obviated only by lying, the offender being at length 
induced to declare that by black he did not mean 
black, but white, and the offended say, " enough — 
I am satisfied.'" 

That the supposed necessity of thus making 
apologies, in the language of falsehood, is much to 
be deplored ; and that the language of truth might 
be used with equal effect. 

That, if the offender and offended were married 
men, the former might declare, that he would not, 
for any worldly consideration, run the risk of mak- 
ing his own wife a widow, and his own children fa- 
therless, nor those of any other man ; and that he 
was also withheld by obedience to the divine com- 
mand, " Thou shalt not kill." 

That, though there might be many heroes pre- 
sent on such an occasion, whose heads were bowed 
down with the weight of their laurels, the man who 
could thus speak and act against the bloody cus- 
tom of the world would be a greater hero, in the 
best sense of the word, as he would be made supe 
rior to the fear of man, by fear of God. 

That some persons say, that they have lied so as 
to deceive, with an air of complacency, as if vain 
of their deceptive art, adding " but it was only a 
white lie, you know ;" as if, therefore, it was no lie 
at all 



276 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING}. 

That it is common to hear even the pious and 
the moral assert that a deviation from truth, or a 
withholding of the truth, is sometimes absolutely ne- 
cessary. 

That persons who thus reason, if asked whether, 
while repeating the commandment, " thou shalt 
not steal," they may, nevertheless, pilfer in some 
small degree, would undoubtedly answer in the 
negative ; yet, that white lying is as much an in- 
fringement of the moral law as pilfering is of the 
commandment not to steal. 

That I have thought it right to give extracts 
from many powerful writers, in corroboration of 
my own opinion on the subject of lying. 

That, if asked why I have taken so much trou- 
ble to prove what no one ever doubted, I reply, 
that I have done so in order to force on the atten- 
tion of my readers that not one of these writers 
mentions any allowed exception to the general rule 
of truth ; and it seems to be their opinion that no 
mental reservation is to be permitted on special oc- 
casions. 

That the principle of truth is an immutable prin- 
ciple, or it is of no use as a guard to morals. 

That'it is earnestly to be hoped and desired, that 
the day may come, when it shall be as dishonoura- 
ble to commit the slightest breach of veracity as 
to pass counterfeit shillings. 

That Dr. Hawkesworth is wrong in saying that 
the liar is universally abandoned and despised ; for, 
although we dismiss the servant whose habit of ly- 
ing offends us, we never refuse to associate with 
the liar of rank and opulence. 

That though, as he says, the imputation of a lie 
is an insult for whicn life only can atone, the man 



CONCLUSION 277 

who would thus fatally resent it does not even re- 
prove the lie of convenience in his wife or child, and 
is often guilty of it himself. 

That the lying order given to a servant entails 
consequences of a mischievous nature ; that it low- 
ers the standard of truth in the person who receives 
it, lowers the persons who give it, and deprives the 
latter of their best claim to their servants' respect; 
namely, a conviction of their moral superiority. 
That the account given byBoswell, of Johnson's 
regard to truth, furnishes us with a better argument 
for it than is afforded by the best moral fictions. 

That, if Johnson could always speak the truth, 
others can do the same ; as it does not require 
his force of intellect to enable us to be sincere. 

That, if it be asked what would be gained by al- 
ways speaking the truth ; I answer, that the indi- 
viduals so speaking would acquire the involuntary 
confidence and reverence of their fellow-creatures. 

That the consciousness of truth and ingenuous- 
ness gives a radiance to the countenance, and a 
charm to the manner, which no other quality of 
mind can equally bestow. 

That the contrast to this picture must be fami- 
liar to the memory of every one. 

That it is a delightful sensation to feel and in- 
spire confidence. 

That it is delightful to know that we have friends 
on whom we can always rely for honest counsel 
and ingenuous reproof. 

That it is an ambition worthy of thinking beings, 
to endeavour to qualify ourselves, and those whom 
we love, to be such friends as these. 

That if each individual family would resolve to 
avoid every species of falsehood, whether autho* 
24 



278 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

rized by custom or not, the example would soon 
spread. 

That nothing is impossible to zeal and enter- 
prize. 

That there is a river which, if suffered to flow 
over the impurities of falsehood and dissimulation 
in the world, is powerful enough to wash them all 
away ; since it flows from the fountain of ever- 
living waters. 

That the powerful writers, from whom I have 
given extracts, have treated the subject of truth as 
moralists only ; and have, therefore, kept out of 
sight the onlv sure motive to resist the temptation 
to lie ; namely, obedience to the divine will. 

That the moral man may utter spontaneous 
truth oft all occasions ; but, the religious man, if 
he acts consistently, must do so. 

That both the Old and New Testament abound 
in facts and texts to prove how odious the sin of 
lying is in the sight of the Almighty ; as I have 
shown in several quotations from Scripture to that 
effect. 

That, as no person has a right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
person who indulges in any one species of lie can- 
not declare, with justice, that he deserves not the 
name of liar. 

That the all-powerful Being who has said " as 
is our day, our strength shall be," still lives to hear 
the prayer of all who call on Him, and in the hour 
of temptation will " strengthen them out of Zion.'" 

That, in all other times of danger, the believer 
supplicates for help, but few person think of pray- 
ing to be preserved from little lying, though the 



CONCLUSION. 279 

Lord has not revealed to us what species of lying 
he tolerates, and what he reproves. 

That, though I am sure it is not impossible to 
speak the truth always, when persons are power- 
fully influenced by religious motives, I admit the 
extreme difficulty of it, and have given the con- 
duct of some distinguished religious characters as 
illustrations of the difficulty. 

That other instances have been stated, in order 
to exemplify the power of religious motives on 
some minds to induce undaunted utterance of the 
truth, even when death was the sure consequence. 

That temptations to little lying are far more 
common than temptations to great and important 
lies ; that they are far more difficult to resist, be- 
cause they come upon us daily and unawares, and 
because we know that we may utter white lies 
without fear of detection ; and, if detected, with- 
out any risk of being disgraced by them in the 
eyes of others. 

That, notwithstanding, they are equally, with 
great lies, contrary to the will of God, and that it 
is necessary to be " watchful unto prayer," when 
we are tempted to commit them. 

I conclude this summary by again conjuring my 
readers to reflect, that there is no moral difficulty, 
however great, which courage, zeal, and per- 
severance, will not enable them to overcome ; 
and never, probably, was there a period in the his- 
tory of man, when those qualities seemed more suc- 
cessfully called into action than at the present 
moment. 

Never was there a better opportunity of esta- 
blishing general society on the principles of truth, 
than that now afforded by the enlightened plan of 



260 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

educating the infant population of these United 
Kingdoms. 

There is one common ground on which the 
most sceptical philosopher and the most serious 
Christian meet, and cordially agree ; namely, on 
the doctrine of the omnipotence of motives. They 
differ only on the nature of the motives to be ap- 
plied to human actions ; the one approving of mo- 
ral motives alone, the other advocating the propri- 
ety of giving religious ones. 

But, those motives only can be made to act 
upon the infant mind which it is able to under- 
stand ; and they are, chiefly, the hope of reward 
for obedience, and the dread of punishment for 
disobedience. But, these motives are all-suffi- 
cient ; therefore, even at the earliest period of 
life, a love of truth, and an abhorrence of lying, 
may be inculcated with the greatest success. 
Moreover, habit, that best of friends, or worst of 
foes, according to the direction given to its pow- 
er, may form an impregnable barrier to defend 
the pupils thus trained, against the allurements of 
falsehood. 

Children taught to tell the truth from the motive 
of fear and of hope, and from the force of habit, 
will be so well prepared to admit and profit by the 
highest motives to do so, as soon as they can be 
unfolded to their minds, that, when they are remo- 
ved to other schools, as they advance in life, they 
will be found to abhor every description of lying 
and deceit ; and thus the cause of spontaneous truth 
and general education will go forward, progressing 
and prospering together. 

Nor can the mere moralist, or the man of the 
world, be blind to the benefits which would accrue 



CONCLUSION. 281 

to them, were society to be built on the foundation 
of truth and of sincerity. If our servants, a race 
of persons on whom much. of our daily comfort de- 
pends, are trained up in habits of truth, domestic 
confidence and security will be the happy result ; 
and we shall no longer hear the common complaint 
of their lies and dishonesty ; and the parents who 
feel the value of truth in their domestics, will, doubt- 
less, take care to teach their children those habits 
which have had power to raise even their inferiors 
in the scale of utility and of moral excellence. 
Where are the worldlings who, in such a state of 
society, would venture to persevere in what they 
now deem -necessary -white lying, when the lady 
may be shamed into truth by the refusal of her 
waiting-maid to utter the lie required ; and the 
gentleman may learn to feel the meanness of false- 
hood, alias, of the lie of convenience, by the 
respectful, but firm, resistance to utter it of his 
valet-dc-chambrc ? But, if the minds of the poor 
and the laborious, who must always form the most 
extensive part of the community, are formed in in- 
fancy to the practice of moral virtue, the happi- 
ness, safety, and improvement of the higher classes 
will, I doubt not, be thereby secured. As the lofty 
heads of the pyramids of Egypt were rendered 
able to resist the power of the storm and the whirl- 
wind, through successive ages, by the extent of 
their bases, and by the soundness and strength of 
the materials of which they were constructed ; so, 
the continued security, and the very existence, per- 
haps, of the higher orders in society, may depend 
on the extended moral teaching and sound princi- 
ples of the lowest orders ; for treacheiy and con 
spiracy, with their results, rebellion and assassina 
24* 



282 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 






tion, are not likely to be the crimes of those who 
have been taught to practise truth and openness in 
all their dealings, on the ground of moral order, 
and obedience to the will of god. 

But, it is the bounden duty of the rich and of the 
great to maintain their superiority of mind and 
morals, as well as that of wealth and situation. I 
beseech them to remember that it will always be 
their place to give and not to take example ; and 
they must be careful, in a race of morality, to be 
neither outstripped nor overtaken by their inferiors. 
They must also believe, in order to render their 
efforts successful, that, although morality without 
religion is, comparatively, weak, yet, when these 
are combined, they are strong enough to overcome 
all obstacles. 

Lying is a sin which tempts us on every side, 
but is more to be dreaded when it allures us in 
the shape of white lies ; for against these, as I have 
before observed, we are not on our guard; and, in- 
stead of looking on them as enemies, we consider 
them as friends. 

Black lies, if I may so call them, are beasts, 
and birds of prey, which we rarely see; and which, 
when seen, we know that we must instantly avoid: 
but white lies approach us in the pleasing shape ol 
necessary courtesies and innocent self-defence. 

Finally, I would urge them to remember that, 
if they believe in the records of holy writ, they can 
thence derive sufficient motives to enable them to 
tell spontaneous truth, in defiance of the sneers of 
the world, and of " evil and good report." 

That faith in a life to come, connected with a 
close dependence on divine grace, will give them 
power in this, as well as in other respects, to email- 



CONCLUSION. 283 

cipate themselves from their own bondage of cor- 
ruption, as well as to promote the purification of 
others. For, Christians possess what Archimedes 
wanted — they have another sphere on which to fix 
their hold ; and, by that means, can be enabled to 
move, to influence, and to benefit, this present world 
of transitory enjoyments ; a world which is in re- 
ality safe and precious to those alone who " use it, 
without abusing it," and who are ever looking be- 
yond it " to a building of God, a home not made 
with hands, eternal in the heavens." 



THE END. 



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